


Some Like it Hot

by sansual



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 5 years post-pacifist, Eventual Smut, Eventual relationship, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Friendship, Musical References, Reader Is Not Frisk, Slow Burn, Wingman sans, grillby says fuck, introvert anxious reader, is that a pun bc he's made of fire bc i think it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 43,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22964752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansual/pseuds/sansual
Summary: After college, you and your friends set out to look for a new place to live, hopefully somewhere familiar, with familiar faces. That plan gets scrapped pretty quick when you stumble upon a lively Southern city and its diverse population of both humans and monsters.Oh, and you're feeling pretty at-home in this hole-in-the-wall bar there. As well as with the bartender. He's pretty hot.
Relationships: Grillby (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 49
Kudos: 154





	1. From Lipstick to Starving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katsclawswrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsclawswrites/gifts).



> This was originally posted by me in March 2016 and was deleted by the AO3 mod team in February 2020. As I repost it and continue to work on it, I'd appreciate any comments and kudos, even if you've read it before, to help restore it to its former glory. Thanks so much for supporting me and sticking with me all this time.
> 
> For my lovely friend Kat, because without this work, I wouldn't have met you.

  


“Fuck!”

You have made short work of the small hotel room, scattering all your belongings across the floor, desk, and queen bed in mere seconds. The department store suitcase you bought two days ago lies flipped in front of the door. It gives the clothes spilling out its sides a luggage-vomit sort of look, you think as you rummage more. For the third time you dig your fingers into your too-small jean pockets, your irritation growing exponentially. 

Your phone buzzes yet again.

_Ally: Do we need to drag you out of the hotel room?_

And again.

_Jameson: she’s not kidding she’ll drag you._

_Ally: We’ll ALL drag you._

_Kyle: Not much for dragging. I’ll sit and watch though._

For the umpteenth time, you conclude that group messages suck, and go to reply. Your once-fumbling fingers dart gracefully across the smartphone, sending out your dilemma quickly.

______: Can’t find my lipstick. Give me a few._

That buys you some time, as well as some silence. It’s a much-needed luxury on the trip you and your three friends managed to pull off. Ally (who was always ecstatic since reaching the surface and meeting up with what was originally your human trio) suggested finding a new space to live once you were all done with college, and you were all up for adventure. With the four of you, it was a fairly easy scheme. A little extra work, a little extra money, and things just fell together. 

Who knew that four days into the trip, your introverted ass would have oodles of sensory overload? 

Ah yes, that’s right. You did.

You remind yourself that pushing things to the back of your mind never solves them, give up on finding that lost lipstick (and it was brand new!), and step out the hotel room door.

When you step into Jameson’s Jeep, you’re greeted with a, “It’s about damn time!” Ally, from the passenger seat, gives you the stink-eye. With her single eye. 

“Don’t mind her,” Kyle sighs, “You know how she gets when she’s hungry.”

You watch the lights of your hotel blur behind the moving car. The electric signs surrounding you flash and fade like gentle stars, serving as a guide to Jameson’s route into the thicker part of the city. You were the one who suggested the group eat dinner in the quarter, eager to kick off the second leg of your adventure. The first part took your entourage to what could only be described as a disappointment. Sure, that city was full of night life and offered plenty of affordable living, but underneath the glittery surface was a rough atmosphere that sent you all packing early for New Orleans. The drive alone took up most of the day, but you were here nonetheless. 

The radio begins to play a familiar tune. Jameson’s the first to start singing, 

_“…Living in a lonely world_

_She took the midnight train_

_Going anywhere…”_

_“Just a city boy_

_Born and raised in South Detroit_

_He took the midnight train_

_Going anywhere…”_

You catch your own voice singing, and you were never much of a singer, but this is a jam opportunity no one can turn down. Before you know it, your other two friends are pitching in as well, and all of you are screaming about holding onto that feeling. The windows are down, and for once, none of you care who hears. From your seat in the back you can see Ally’s eye sparkle as she stares out the window. You think, and no matter how hard you try, you simply cannot remember a time when she looked half this happy. 

This place is different.

The Jeep reaches a tiny wedge of a parking spot, and you all get out. For a Thursday night, the French Quarter is packed with people and monsters alike. You do everything you can to keep Kyle from bolting into the crowd, and have to resort to the buddy system. At the solution you find yourself rolling your eyes. You’re all twenty-somethings, dammit; can’t you practice a little self-control?

“Alright, we need a place that isn’t so crowded we could get trampled.” Jameson’s eyes survey the loud streets, and you start to scan the area too. A small, quiet place is ideal for a relaxing first experience, so it may be hard to find-

“Hey, how about we try there?” Kyle’s pointing off to a block that just barely escapes the light. “It may be a hole-in-the-wall, but hey.” 

“Still not sure about it. Can we look at the menu and decide from there?” Honestly, you’re a bit leery. Cracks run down the old brick building, and aside from the neon sign, the place looks (figuratively and literally) pretty shady. The lights read “Grillby’s.”

Suddenly, you feel it. Through your whole body comes a tremor, shaking you and bringing a noise that has all your friends staring. Your stomach growls.

You glance at the little restaurant again. Grillby’s. You feel determined.

  



	2. From Warm to Hot

  


As soon as you walk in the door, it hits you: warmth. So much warmth it feels as if a fire is enveloping you, inside and out. It flutters in your stomach like pure happiness, and you have to stop yourself from getting dizzy off of it. A quick look at your companions reveals nothing as to whether or not they feel this strongly, but they’re certainly pleased by the atmosphere at Grillby’s. It’s a relatively homely place, with honey-wood walls and a floor to match. A quiet chatter is present, yet not overbearing. The pristine bar is obviously the focal point of the place, shining in the dim lighting. The larger tables are inhabited by groups of gambling dogs (So cute. So soft. Must pet.), so you begin to slink into a booth.

Kyle stops you, though. “Well, I was thinking about a drink. And there are four open chairs at the bar, so…”

Before answering, you glance at your designated driver, who nods. With Jameson’s approval, the four of you stride up to the bar, taking your seats at the crimson stools. Your feet dangle a bit at your chair, due to both the chair’s height and your lack thereof. Looking to your left, you notice you’re perched next to a skeleton in a blue hoodie. He’s drinking what looks to be a very dense Bloody Mary, and since you’re perfectly fine with monsters and such, you’re ready to conclude your observation then and there and turn back to your friends. It appears, however, that he has different ideas.

“You got a _bone_ to pick with me, kid?” Did. Did he just.

Only one way to find out. Taking a breath, you reply, “Not really. You just seemed kind of _bonely_ over there.”

The pinpricks of light disappear from his sockets, and you can feel your blood run cold. Okay, maybe you were mistaken about the jokes. Maybe skeleton puns offend him in the worst possible way. And maybe he’s going to take you out back into the alley and kill you now. With the huge, near-sadistic smile, and lack of pupils, it’s very believable in your anxious little head.

And then the lights return, and he’s snickering like a hyena. “Good one, kiddo,” he applauds you amidst spurts of laughter, and then takes a swig of his drink. “The name’s Sans,” he holds a bony hand out, “Sans the skeleton.” 

You go to shake, saying, “____. ____ the human. That’s a Bloody Mary, right?”

“Not a typical one.” He takes another sip. “ _Tibia_ honest, it’s mostly ketchup. I get Grillbz to add a little vodka and a celery stick, just for shits and giggles.” Now you’re the one chuckling, and your friends can’t help but glance over to behold your new acquaintance. Ally gives him a nod, while Kyle’s too busy educating Jameson on the different types of alcoholic beverages to pay much attention.

“Wait,” you say once you’re done laughing, “Grillbz? Who’s that?”

“I knew you weren’t from around here. See, I’m a regular, and I’ve never seen your group before. This is his place, thus the name an’ all. Me and Grillby, we go way _backbone_. He’s probably in the kitchen now, but when he comes back out I can introduce ya. I gotta warn you, he’s a little _hotheaded_.”

“Um…okay?” You don’t really get the emphasis on the last part for about a minute. Then, a door behind the bar opens, and wow was that pun really obvious. 

You understand why the restaurant feels so warm now. The owner, Grillby, is completely made of fire, and about six feet tall. His crisp white shirt only makes him appear to burn brighter, and the light he emits reflects off his glasses in just a way that you can’t look away from him. 

“Wow, kid,” Sans’s voice says somewhere, blurred to you, “you look like you really got the _hots_.” 

You can barely shake your head before Grillby is right across the bar from you. “May I help you?” His voice sounds wispy, like smoke, and low. And suddenly you can’t find your own voice. You can feel your face burning, from both the fire and the embarrassment, when the skeleton comes to your rescue.

“Yeah, Grillbz, this is ____. She’s in town with her friends for a while, and has a good taste in restaurants.” 

This is when Ally decides to chime in. “Actually, we’re all thinking about moving here! We just got in today, and everything’s so nice so far!” Ally, always knowing just what to say. She’ll undoubtedly shift the attention to herself, even if it’s an unintentional happening. It’s been done numerous times before, and you don’t blame her for it. You simply wish that sometimes you were a little bit more capable of attracting attention.

But Grillby hardly regards her. His flaming gaze is still fixed on you. “____,” when he says your name you can’t help but shiver, “It’s nice to meet you.” You gather that he’s very proper. Classy, but brief. You think of the city, and realize he fits in well here. “What can I serve you?” You were too busy focusing on his voice to notice the two menus passed to you, as well as to the rest of your party. One is large, with an extensive list of beverages. The other is less than half that size, and contains simple bar food. 

Sans stage-whispers to you and your friends, “Try the burger. It’s a _bone-chillling_ experience.” 

You take his advice, asking for a hamburger (with pickles only, you specify). Two seats down, Kyle orders a mojito to drink, and you do the same. The food comes out quick, simple in presentation. The smell is mouthwatering, but you will yourself to wait for your beverage first. Watching Grillby make the drinks is almost hypnotic. His hands dart smoothly from container to container, more like water in their movements than fire. You hear his flames crackle when he finishes a drink, and you swear there’s a jagged smile across his fiery face as well. 

“Enjoy,” He rasps to you as he slides the drink across the counter. Smooth. When he disappears behind the same door he entered through, you’re almost disappointed. The warmth from before remains on your cheeks, and you wonder if anyone notices the red.

The burger is delicious.

  



	3. From Blush to Hum-A-Long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song in this chapter is "Light My Fire" by The Doors

  


You make pleasant conversation. Ally, amidst the screwdriver she's sipping, is full of laughter. She's so busy cackling at Sans that you start to believe your flustered face has been forgotten.

Then Sans says, "Kid, you alright? You look like your _bones got rattled_ ," and you want to die then and there.

"What?" Kyle butts in, but when you turn your head to explain yourself he, too, busts out laughing. "Oh Jesus, that's a blush!" 

"No," you stammer, defensive, "No, no, no! It's just hot, is all!"

"____'s blushing!" He chirps loud enough for all to hear. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. You're praying Grillby doesn't walk through the door now. Everyone's pestering you about your face, debating amongst themselves about whether or not it could really be a result of the warm restaurant. To make matters worse, it's attracting _so much attention_ , and it's _so loud_. Before you know it, your (previously subsided) sensory overload has returned. You end up aggressively sipping your mojito to perhaps ease the noise. This proves to no avail, however, as seconds later you notice your glass is nothing but ice, mint, and limes. 

"Seems like you got yourself a dil- _lime_ -a there, pal." Sans's voice breaks the metaphorical barrier you'd made around yourself, and you turn to see that, with a smile, he's withdrawn from the conversation about your face your friends are still holding. When you crack a small smile, he continues, "Are you okay, by the way? I never _mint_ to upset you, kid."

You give a slight nod. "Yeah, just didn't expect all that noise. I could use some me-time, y'know?"

"Gotcha." You both turn to hear bustling noises coming from the kitchen, so Sans gestures to another set of doors across the restaurant. "Well, if you wanna go splash some water and try to _cool down_ a little, the bathroom's over there. And while you're gone," he gives you a sneaky smirk, "maybe I could get that drink refilled for you." Oh. _Oh._ More sounds echo from the kitchen, and the door begins to open. 

"Thanks, Sans." Quickly, you stand, turning your back before the approaching Grillby can see how flustered and overwhelmed you are, and heading toward the washroom. 

The women's restroom has two stalls and is extraordinarily cool in comparison to the heat in the dining area. A quick look in the mirror conveys just how red your face was. Was it really that obvious? Sighing, you grab a paper towel, wet it, and begin to dab the cool napkin on your burning cheeks. Now _that_ feels better. Just a few more minutes of silence and gathering yourself, and you should be ready to go back and face your friends. And Grillby. 

"____! There you aaarre!" You're beginning to think you just might've jinxed yourself: Ally stands in the doorway, a look of relief (as well as something else you can't quite place) on her face. "We didn't even _see_ you leeeeave! Don't scare usssss like thaat!" Ah, now you get it. Ally is clearly just another screwdriver short of being a drunken toolbox, because she is _hammered_. The monster can barely walk straight, and when she reaches you she clutches the sink for dear life. 

"No, Ally, I'm good." With the hand that's not holding the paper towel you steady your lightweight friend. "You, however, probably need to get back to the hotel." 

"Mmmkay. Where's the car?"

"No," you sigh, "not by yourself." At this point you realize your attempt at you-time was unsuccessful. You walk out of the bathroom with Ally in tow, ignoring Sans's confused expression.

"What's the deal, wagon wheel?" Jameson starts, but then he sees her. "Oh. Do we need to go?" 

"I guess. She'll probably be passed out if she has another sip. And I don't think I can carry her. So yeah." As you speak you can feel your disappointment grow. It has only been about an hour, and you're already attached to Grillby's. A small pit in your stomach informs you of this, and as Jameson and Kyle pay for your group's meal you can't help but glance wistfully to the other end of the bar.

"____? You're leaving already, kid?" Despite having a firm skull, Sans looks quite dismayed. 

"Yeah, I know," you say softly, "sorry I couldn't stay longer, but Ally's gotta get back to the hotel." Stepping to your seat, you grab your purse. At least your face isn't red anymore, you think as you sigh. "Nice meeting y-"

"You didn't inform me you were leaving, ____. I just finished a new mojito for you." A smokey voice cuts you off. When you look up, Grillby stands right across from you, a fresh glass in hand. You find yourself staring into the glimmer of lights behind his glasses. His hands are on the bar, too, with the warmth of the flames gently licking your knuckles. "Are you alright?"

You manage to reply, "Yeah, I'm fine. My friend's gotta go back to the hotel, and we all rode together." 

"____! You coming?" Kyle calls from across the bar. Unlike Ally, he can hold his liquor, and stands straight and tall. Beside him, Jameson supports Ally's wobbling form. Her bag slips from her shoulder, and he quickly takes it, handing it to Kyle to keep track of. "If we don't go now, she's gonna pass the fuck out on Jameson."

You're about to join them when Sans, from next to you, brightens a bit, saying, "Do you think you two can manage? ____ ordered another drink here, and Grillbz doesn't like stuff goin' to waste."

"I'm her only ride, though," Jameson shrugs, "so I don't know how-"

"Relax, pal." The skeleton's smile is still easygoing. You find your mojito placed next to you, and you sip it as you listen to his idea. "I can get her home when she's done. Besides, it'd only be _ride_ if you focused on your tipsy friend instead." 

Jameson seems to take a minute to think. He glances at Kyle, whose only comment is to gesture to Ally. "Well," Jameson says, slow and calculating. You know when he talks like that he's not sure about what he's saying. "If you make sure she stays sober. And she comes straight back to the hotel. We don't like worrying about her."

You, in the slightest bit, are touched at their concern. You must be honest, though, that the most prevalent thing on your mind is that you get to stay and drink a little longer (With less sensory overload! Yay!). With a smile and a nod, you bid your friends goodbye (though one has no idea what's going on) and return to your barstool. When you sit down, it swivels. 

"Decide to stay?" Grillby's propped his head on one hand when he addresses you. 

"Why wouldn't she?" Sans chimes, "Going back to the hotel sounds real _bar_ -ing."

The bartender groans, and you find yourself giggling at his distaste. Grillby walks off shortly after to tend to another patron, leaving you and Sans to your drinks. You savor the clean taste of the mojito, smiling as it goes down easy. The clock reads 9:38. You could definitely stand to relax away from your friends for a while longer. The quiet company of Sans is plenty enough for you. 

"So, ____," he catches your attention, "tell me about yourself. Your friend said you were thinking about moving here, right? What do you plan to do if you do that, kiddo? You got a job?"

"Well," you speak quietly. You hope he won't judge you for what you're about to say. Monsters typically aren't judgemental, you've come to find out, but you don't like to generalize. "Right now I'm a waitress, and me and my friends, we all just graduated. But I really want to go into the arts, or even the music industry. It's so easy for me to be creative, I love it." When you finish, you think you've lost him, and that he's not listening. You wouldn't be surprised; people have tuned you out before when you've been so passionate about something. 

And then he says, "Music? Tell me about the kind of music you wanna do." You perk up immediately, and catch a smile on his face. But before you can speak, he adds, "Y'know, why don't you just show me, kid?" 

The jukebox in the corner of the room is clearly a new installment. With its soft white lights and blue color scheme, you're surprised you overlooked it in the warmly-colored bar. It's a touchscreen, and the blinking search bar at the top implies a _very_ wide variety available. 

"Whatever you like, ____, it's prolly on here." Sans hands you a dollar, then steps away to give you room to breathe. At the bar, you think you see him waving Grillby over, and requesting yet another mojito and Bloody Mary (Oh, who are you kidding, it's pretty much ketchup!). You quickly find what you're looking for, select a song, then return to the bar. The burst of music accompanies you, and lively lyrics have you humming while you sit down.

_"You know that it would be untrue_  
_You know that I would be a liar_  
_If I was to say to you_  
_Girl, we couldn't get much higher"_

You can't help but sway a little in your chair. The song is weird and infectious, it's one of your _favorites_ , and as it echoes through Grillby's you feel like dancing on air. Sans casts another smile your way. You can't help but feel utterly at ease as the two of you simply drink and enjoy. 

_"Come on baby,_  
_Light my fire_  
_Come on baby,_  
_Light my fire_  
_Try to set the_  
_Night on fire"_

And as you sit there, third drink in hand, more at home in this tiny bar than anywhere you've been in the past four days, you hear the quiet crackling of flames.

Grillby is humming along.

  



	4. From Bar to Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter: "The Pina Colada Song" by Rupert Holmes and "Hey" by The Pixies

  


Eventually, your lock screen tells you that it's 11:00, and by then you feel you have made an impression. Between a couple dollars from Sans and the change at the bottom of your purse (So. Much. Change.) you've managed to queue up quite a playlist at Grillby's. The music wafting through the homely bar gives a happier atmosphere, you think as you finish your fourth drink. The bartender seems happy too- you notice he keeps casting gentle smiles your way every time a new song comes on. You like his smile. It's a thin, jagged break in the flames that make up his face, and though it appears sharp, the lines shift and smooth out at the corners of his mouth, giving a soft impression. You make a mental note to do more things that would make him happy. But what?

"Hey ____?" Sans catches your attention, and when you turn to look at him he's holding another dollar. "This is gonna sound weird. But I've got a request."

"I can do that!" You smile as you take the dollar. The whole bar has been listening to your music taste the whole night; you can surely spare Sans a song. "Which one?"

A troubled grimace crosses his face. "That's the thing. I don't know."

"What?"

He sighs, "Okay, lemme start over: I've got a friend. And there's this kid she has; it's not hers, biologically, but she's got custody. The kid's like 13, their name's Frisk. Ever heard of them?"

 _Frisk_. You know that sounds familiar. You drill your brain, wracking it for any mention. _Frisk, Frisk..._ Ah!

"The one that broke the barrier?" You ask slowly, in case you get it wrong. 

But he says, "That's the one," and continues. "Anyway, I was watching the kid while their mom, Tori, went to a teacher's conference or something yesterday. And they played me a bunch of songs they liked. The kid's precious. But there's one song. And it's just bits and pieces I know, but it's been stuck in my head for the past twenty-four hours." Sans looks completely exasperated once he's finished explaining. His eye-sockets seem to crinkle in tire and confusion, and his slouch is somehow slouchier. 

"So you know the song, but at the same time you don't know the song?"

"Yeah."

"Okay..." You try to think, your fingers drumming on the bar.

"You could try singing it." A third voice chimes in, a crackling snicker accompanying it. Grillby looks pleased with the reaction this gets him. 

The skeleton, clearly frustrated, quips, "Yeah, no, that's not happening, Grillbz. I ain't a singer and you said that because you know I won't sing." After noticing your face as you try to muster your laughter he says, "You better take _notes_ , pal. Laugh at the wrong _sing_ and you could have a bad time."

His ominous tone shuts you up. "Okay, okay, fine!" Sober of your laughter (but not of alcohol, considering you've had four mojitos), you glance at the jukebox. "Could you maybe tell me what the song's about? Or maybe could I get some lyrics that are stuck in your head?"

"Well this is just a shot in the dark, because who knows how many songs you humans make about alcohol..." Sans shrugs, his smile twisting, "but it's somethin about piña coladas-"

"I got it!!!" You cry, cutting him off, and before he can say any more you're rocketing over to the jukebox with his dollar in your hand. When you look over your shoulder, you notice how winded he looks. You're able to find the song quickly. Within a minute of leaving you find yourself plopped back down on the barstool. You take note that you feel slightly winded. Is it the alcohol, or just the quick sprint across the bar?

_"I was tired of my lady_  
_We'd been together too long_  
_Like a worn out recording_  
_Of a favorite song"_

"This is it!" Sans exclaims with more enthusiasm than you're used to from him, "Thanks, kiddo!" 

You can only smile sheepishly. It was pure luck the song was so unique. Anything else, and you would have had trouble. Perhaps he _would_ have had to actually sing. Now _that_ would be a sight.

 _"Yes, I like piña coladas_  
_And getting caught in the rain_  
_I'm not much into health food,_  
_I am into champagne..."_

A gentle _clink_ is heard, and when you look up your empty glass is gone, and replaced with a...

"Grillby!" You get his attention, beaming. "You're fantastic!" The piña colada is beautifully garnished in the glass, but he must have made it in mere seconds. You gaze at the cream-colored concoction for a few seconds, taking in the sight as if it were a masterpiece. 

"Enjoy, ____," Grillby rasps, "on the house."

"Hey, Grillbz," Sans pipes, "Why don't I ever get free drinks?" His grin is shit-eating, so when he makes his complaint you don't feel sorry for him _at all._

"What," Grillby appears to be arching an eyebrow, "Is your eternal 'tab'," the flames on his fingers quickly dart up and back down for emphasis, "not enough for you?" Though his tone is dead-serious, you catch a jagged smirk on his face. _Oh my, that's attractive_. You focus on your fifth drink, sipping from the black straw happily. 

Sans is clearly floored by Grillby's comeback and says nothing else. 

By the time you finish your drink, you feel sleep inching into the edges of your vision. Your eyes flutter as you suck up the last little drops of piña colada, and as soon as Grillby takes the glass to wash it, your head nearly hits the bar.

"Sans." Though your eyes are closed you can hear the smokiness of his voice. "I think it's time to take her back to her hotel."

"Yeah, I think so. I need to wake her up, though, so I can know where it is."

You manage to drawl, "I'm up," and sit up halfway. You can barely keep your eyes open enough to keep your gaze on Grillby. "Thanks for the drinks. I had a good time..." 

"It's no problem. I would ask you to stay longer, but it's clear you need rest." In your sleepy state his voice is even warmer, and you're almost leaning toward his fiery form when Sans gently touches your shoulder.

"You'll have to come back and see us before you leave, kid."

"Leave? I don't wanna leave..."

"Shh," Sans gently tugs you to him. "Now tell me where your hotel is, and your room number."

"Uh..." You have to think a minute. Why is thinking so _hard_? "It's the Sleep Inn over in Metarie. My room's 413. I'm sleepy."

"I know, pal. Now just hold onto my shoulders for a bit..." Sans has a quiet drawl to his speech. It soothes you enough to wrap your arms around the blue jacket he's wearing. The hood is fur-lined. You almost fall asleep into it.

"Be careful with her, Sans," Grillby chides. "I don't want anything happening to her." It sounds like he's frowning. Why does he seem so worried?

"Trust me, I will."

"Where's your car?" You grumble, putting your body weight on him. 

"Calm down, kid," Sans says, "I know a shortcut."

You see the lights of the bar fade, then the rest of your vision does the same.

_"Hey!"_

The next time you open your eyes, you notice the gentle morning sun filtering through the curtains. 

_"Been trying to meet you"_

You let your alarm play. The song you set is a pretty decent one, so you don't mind the music now flooding into your ears. But the last thing you remember is...

_"Hey, must be a devil between us_  
_Or whores in my head_  
_Whore at my door_  
_Whore in my bed_  
_But hey,_  
_Where have you been?"_

There is a note on your bedside. And the handwriting is terrible.

 _"Hey ____, you fell out on the way here. I didn't wanna fool with your clothes, so I just put you in bed. Your head might hurt a little, but hey,_ water _you gonna do about it? I suggest you_ sink _about it a little."_

You grab one of the glasses next to the ice jar and travel to the bathroom, note in hand. The tap spills out freezing water. After splashing your face off, you fill the glass and take a few heavy gulps. The mirror tells you that you are indeed a wreck. Sighing, you return to the note.

_Anyway, I wanted to say you're pretty alright. Grillby doesn't typically take to people that fast, especially not tourists. Take a while to relax today, and I've got the kiddo for tonight, so we're gonna go get some burgers at around 7. It's a real nice joint we're going to, you've probably heard of it. -Sans_

A smile crosses your face as you read it, recalling the night before when you finish. You hadn't enjoyed yourself like that in quite a while. You felt at home, you felt _happy_.

With a newfound burst of energy, you grab your phone and begin to text your friends. You don't think you want to be a tourist anymore.

  



	5. From OJ to Okay

  


"So you're sure this is what you want?" Jameson asks over his orange juice, "After less than a day, you want to live here?"

"Even if you don't have a job yet, or a house? You're all of a sudden ready to move?" Kyle, too, has fixed you with a curious expression. You wait for Ally to chime in, but she's too busy being hungover with her head down to reply. The boys, however, wait for an answer. 

You find yourself nodding, "Yeah. I know it's far-fetched, but I really do love it. Kinda feels like home already. We can find jobs and a house, that won't be too hard."

Something of a wince crosses Jameson's face. He almost whispers it, and you hardly catch it. "Well... What if some of us don't want to live here? Or if it's not a good idea?" When you and Kyle glance at him questioningly, he nods, and then jerks his head over to Ally as well. "I dunno, guys, it's just not my favorite place to be. And her? The 'casual drinking' that ensued last night alone tells me the party scene isn't for her."

"Yes it isssss," a muffled whine comes from the fourth seat at the table, "don't talk like I'm not here."

"Last we checked, you were asleep. Besides, you're not stable enough to decide what you need in this situation," Jameson snaps, unusual to his nature, and Ally sinks into her chair like a dismayed slinky.

There is a spurt of silence as everyone nibbles on their continental breakfast. Around you, the ground floor of the hotel bustles quietly with moving people. You busy yourself with an instant waffle and a styrofoam cup of tea, finding the typical English Breakfast to be pretty good. Reminiscing on the electric feeling you had last night, as opposed to the dull pang you feel now, proves to be a good decision, as you feel slightly better in a couple of minutes.

Kyle breaks the silence. "So if anyone stayed, it'd just be me and ____?" 

"You're in for sure?" You ask. You don't want to be alone; however, you don't want to make him feel compelled. And you don't know what to expect, especially from Kyle, and _especially_ after a last-minute decision.

Then he quips a mere, "Probably," and your posture eases. Then he adds, "Could we look at houses today, just to see some options?" and you tense just as quick. 

"I..." You know house shopping is stressful. What if you can't find anything you liked? His taste is different than yours. What if everything is too expensive? You're fresh out of college. How long could this take? You had plans tonight. With Sans. And Frisk.

And Grillby. 

Knocking you out of your daze, Jameson says, "That sounds cool, actually. Even if I'm not living here I'd love to help with some casual looking for a few hours." A few hours. Just casual looking. With smiles around the table, your group finishes your breakfast in agreement. After putting a lid on your styrofoam cup, you practically skip to your room to get ready. This won't be bad at all. It may even be fun.

This is not fun. Three houses into your endeavor, you are without both luck and energy. The first one was too small, the second too old, and the third...

"$6,000 a month?!" You're seething when you walk out the door. "I couldn't pay a quarter of that!" The house isn't anything too large or extravagant, simply a two-bedroom place niched in a neighborhood off the highway. Hoping for better luck, you and the group had left the immediate French Quarter after the second house. You could argue that this was even worse. The owner of the house was rude, sending an irate comment at you just before you walked out the door. With every step you take you can feel your shoulders slumping more and more. You are out of determination. 

"Well," Jameson says softly from behind you, "we could always try another part of town."

"And this isn't the only day we have," Kyle adds. "We don't have to be off-campus til August." You have two and a half months to find the house, you realize after doing the hardly-strenuous mental math. However, with paperwork, legal things to attend to, and the physical moving of your things, waiting that long does not seem like a smart idea. Procrastination may be Kyle's vice, but it certainly isn't yours. 

Okay, maybe it is. Just a little. Or is it? You opt to debate this later, and focus on the matter at hand.

You catch yourself suggesting, "Do you think we can grab lunch and chill a bit?" All four of you are in the Jeep now, driving down the endless maze of cul-de-sacs in the neighborhood. The disappointing house has long past disappeared behind you, as has your worry, for the time being. 

"Pleeeeaase? I'm hungryy!" Ally whines from the backseat. Over your house-hunting trip, she has slowly gotten over her hangover, and can now speak in limited complaints. She leans against the window, two of her four slender arms propping her there. Jameson nods his approval from the driver's seat, and Kyle's "mhm" sends you into a shopping center an exit away. 

Panera is, frankly, packed. Ally whines about the long line, bitching to the air about all the other places your group could've picked. You are filled with sensory overload.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you mutter, and step through the throng of a lunch crowd to doors at the back of the restaurant. You're turning for the women's room when _SLAM!_ The feel of a body colliding with yours knocks the breath out of you. 

"Shit, sorry!" You exclaim, backing up just as your collider gasps, 

"I'm so sorry! Are you alright, miss..." They trail off, and you realize that the voice is warm. _Familiarly warm_. You look up as Grillby breathes, "____?" 

"Grillby!" You cry, smiling at him. Well, you attempt to smile, but then you remember that you just _bumped into his fucking chest_ and that reminds you of the throbbing in your nose and lips from said bump. Your hands fly to your face, but are stopped by another set of fingers.

Grillby's guiding your chin up for you to look him in the eyes. "Did I hurt you? I wasn't watching where I was going, _fuck_ am I sorry, ____." His fingers graze over your nose, and you're too entranced by the warmth to notice he cursed. More heat finds your skin as he traces up the bridge of your nose, fretting about. "I don't think it's broken. Does it feel like it is? How hurt are you?" 

"I'm all good," you manage to say, despite your nose almost being pinched by the bartender, "but I do think we have an audience now." It is true; several people have turned to watch the exchange taking place in front of the restrooms. A noticeable figure is Kyle, propped against the counter with eyes locked on the two of you. 

Grillby's face turns a gentle blue, the same cornflower shade as his button-down. When he removes his hands from your face, you feel the warmth of flames caress your cheek. He looks into your eyes, with that gentle smile of his.

"Now, I don't want to intrude, but do you mind if I sit with you and your friends? I'd love your company, but without any more pain."

All you can do is grin.

"...and then the last one was just flat-out expensive, and the lady was rude to ____!"

"A tedious endeavor, if you ask me," Grillby remarks after Jameson's account of the morning's events. You don't mean to be rude, but you can't help but stare at him as he eats. His jagged yet soft-looking lips open, and the sandwich brushes past the small wisps of fire. However, when he closes his mouth, there's no chewing, but the flames atop his head grow larger. You time it quietly, seeing how long it takes for his body to react to the food.

"____, quit staring! It's kinda rude!" Jameson snaps, catching your attention. 7 seconds. Everyone's turned to look at you now, and you sink into the booth in sheer embarrassment.

"Maybe she's in deep thought," Grillby chimes softly, adding, "Frankly, I don't mind if she stares at me." A playful smirk of flames dances across his face as his eyes meet yours. You go completely and utterly red. 

"Well, Grillby," Kyle starts suddenly, "What are you going to do after this?" You don't understand the abrupt change in subject at first, but then you catch Kyle's glance in your direction and realize he's saving you.

"The bar doesn't open until five. I think I'm going to go home and..." Without warning, Grillby cuts himself off, "Home! That's it!" His flames spark in excitement, and he has the biggest, _cutest_ grin on his face.

You are thoroughly confused. 

As is everyone else at the table.

"Oh, I suppose I need to explain myself, don't I?" He arches a fiery eyebrow upon seeing your expressions. None of you respond, so he begins to talk, and as he carries on you notice that the more he speaks the more sparks fly. "All this time I have been thinking of your housing situation. And I was thinking of how to assist you in some way. I don't intend to force anything onto you, but," his hands grip the table and your soup trembles with the force, "would you consider looking at houses in the monster neighborhoods? Firstly, they're new, considering they were erected fairly recently, with our arrival," he stops here to gesture to Ally, who is wolfing down a salad, "Secondly, compared to the rest of the city, all of the housing is quite inexpensive. Finally, they all have at least two bedrooms, omitting one custom-build for a certain monster who would undoubtedly be living alone."

Here Ally sneers, hissing under her breath, "Jerry..."

"Suppose you're better, now," Kyle murmurs before turning his attention back to Grillby. "Sounds good to me. It'll just be me and ____, so all we need is her 'okay.'"

You all but jump at the opportunity, exclaiming, "Hell yes, please!"

"Wonderful." His voice has calmed, and is back to a smoky rasp your ears can't help but devour. Grillby stands, collecting his plate and looking at you. "It may be a habit of mine, but, may I take yours too?"

"Of course, Grillby."

He takes his plate, and yours, and everyone else's, all in one trip, and returns briefly. "Shall we go now? That is, if you all don't have anything else planned afterwards."

"No plans," Ally replies with her typical grin, "not yet, anyway."

"I can lead you that way, if you'll follow me. The monster housing isn't too far away from here, perhaps a twenty minute drive." 

"Come on, then," you cheer, "we're _burning_ daylight!" 

From the look you receive you think Grillby is reconsidering his offer.

The parking lot isn't crowded, with the lunch rush long gone. In the afternoon sun, white light shimmers off the cars. Jameson's Jeep is hot to the touch, but as you're beginning to pull the handle you're stopped by a warm, gentle hand on your shoulder. You turn to find Grillby, looking at you with such intensity that you can't help but flush pink. He has his other hand on the vehicle next to yours, something you hardly noticed until now. The numerous silver accents of the Harley Davidson would catch your eye if you weren't gazing right into pure fire. Nevertheless, you've never even touched a motorcycle before, and the mere thought of it brings a mix of adrenaline and anxiety into your fluttering heart.

"____, would you like to ride with me?"

  



	6. From Ride to Fuck

  


"____, would you like to ride with me?"

The asphalt seems to have been swept out from under you, because you are _floored_. The invitation posed lingers in the air with the wind, blowing about your mind as you try to grasp just what he asked you. All the while Grillby leans against the motorcycle, his eyes never leaving you.

Behind you, in the truck, Jameson asks, "____, what's the holdup? I thought we were going."

"Just a second," you manage to say. Your gaze never breaks his. A small part of you wishes _someone_ would look away, just so the tension building in your stomach can vanish. But you just can't seem to take your eyes off of him. "I..." Him, with that lovely expression, and that lovely blue shirt that complements him so well, and that lovely _stance_ of his. He's beautiful.

You hardly notice your phone buzzing, and just to clear the air of all the awkward silence, you check it.

_Ally: Your face rn puts tomatoes to shame._

It buzzes again.

_Ally: He's hot. Get on the fucking motorcycle._

You glance back at her, just to see the wicked smirk plastered across her face. For emphasis, she's wiggling her eyebrow. Mentally you are praying with the intensity of a dying man that Grillby is not seeing this. With an eyeroll, you look away, deciding instead to cast a smile at Grillby. 

He asks, "Is something wrong? I don't mean to pressure you into doing something you don't want to do. If you don't, then please tell me. It won't hurt my feelings." A light blue has graced his cheeks, and the wistfulness in his smile sends a wisp of sadness through your soul. _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

_Ally: Get on._

_Ally: The FUCKING._

_Ally: MOTORCYCLE._

__You put the phone back in your pocket. "I'd love to go with you."

"You're certain?" Grillby's words are a nervous babble now, and you wonder just what you've done to make him act that way. "There's no harm done if you really don't want to; I mean, I'd certainly enjoy your company, and since we're going to the same place. And-and I promise to drive safely, no harm would come to you in my hands, if that's what you're worried over. Please don't agree simply because I asked, I want you to genuinely..."

"Grillby," With a soft voice you silence him entirely. "You're not pressuring me. I'd seriously love to go with you."

"You're _positive_? Forgive me for worrying, but I-"

You get on the fucking motorcycle. 

It's so surreal. The breeze whipping past your skin, the ease you glide forward with, the vibrant revving of the engine... You feel like you are flying. Grillby winds through traffic slowly, glancing back every few moments to make sure you're alright. How could you not be? After the helmet he insisted you wear and the way he keeps making sure you're holding onto him tightly, there's not much more you could do to be safe. The two of you reach a stop. He does that thing again, where he takes the hands that are already wrapped around his middle and closes them tighter around the fabric of his shirt. 

"I'm okay," you reassure him over the roar of the engine. 

"Just making sure," he replies. "Are you comfortable?" He only had one helmet on-hand, and as previously stated, it's on you. His flames waver freely in the air. If you stare for a moment, you're entranced enough to dismiss the frantic beating of your heart.

"Yeah, I'm good. Are you?" 

"Perfect." The light flicks to green, and the motorcycle rolls forward. You stare at the ground below, and your shoes, and his shoes. Your well-loved Converses contrast with the black dress shoes he's got on. The sunlight glistens off of the leather, and for a second you have the mental image of Grillby shining his shoes before going out this morning. Does he shine his shoes every day? 

Ally, Kyle, and Jameson are a few vehicles behind you, separated by the traffic. You give them a wave before the motorcycle swerves suddenly. The car ahead of you has stopped suddenly, and Grillby narrowly avoids bumping it. The abrupt movement, however, causes your body to lurch. You mentally remind yourself to not wave again, and grip onto him tighter. He smells like smoke and some musky cologne that you can't help but lean into. Your helmet brushes up against his back and _he's so warm_. You can feel the heat from your fingers, too, as they grip his shirt. Wondering for a second if he'd catch if you held him even closer, and then dismissing it (you're on a motorcycle in heavy traffic, dammit, of course he's not going to notice!), you pull yourself tighter against him. You think you feel his breath catch, but it may instead be the shudder of the motorcycle.

Soon enough, the two vehicles exit off of the crowded interstate, theirs behind yours. Small, local business have situated themselves at either side of the road, and you glance at the numerous signs. _Froggit Home and Garden. Blue's Nice Cream Parlor. Aaron's Gym ;)_. Each building seems to have a generous amount of customers to it, for two o'clock on a Friday. The thought of monsters having successful careers fills you with happiness. 

Grillby turns down a small road nestled in a patch of trees, slowing the motorcycle until all it emits is a gentle purr. Wildlife grows up and around you, untouched by anyone. He points out a thriving azalea bush to you, and it's so vivid and bright you almost ask him to pull over. The silver Jeep trails behind you slowly. You wonder if they notice the way things seem to flow perfectly together here, or if they're captivated by the old oak trees forming a canopy over your heads. A mile more, and now you can see the houses. And your breath hitches.

You don't think you've ever loved a neighborhood before this, but the rows of double gallery houses absolutely capture your heart. Each building has at least two stories, with balconies and fences made of wrought iron. The flowers and trees are more maintained in the yards, yet flourish just the same. 

"Do you like these?" Grillby asks, glancing back to look at you. The motorcycle is at a slow crawl now due to the speed limit. "If you do I can show y-"

"I love them!" Not even the motorcycle helmet can hide your expression. "They're so beautiful." 

He lets out a bemused chuckle, crackles of fire sparking into the air. "Quite classy, in my opinion. I know there's one for sale on the next street over." 

"Can we go? Please?" 

"Of course, ____. I drove here for you." For _you._ Your cheeks turn red, and you hardly have any time to process anything else before the motorcycle takes off again. When it stops, a street over, Grillby parks it by the curb, props it, and gets off. He holds out a flaming hand to you, and you take it. The helmet is lifted off of your head. He places it in the storage space under the seat, never keeping his eyes off of you. 

"What do you think of this one?" 

You can't reply before the Jeep stops behind you, and Kyle leaps out, exclaiming, "____, we gotta live here!"

The house is white, contrasted starkly by the black accents, and pulled out of a dream. Bright flowers in the yard wind and dance around the fencing, calling to you with a natural wave. The red "FOR SALE" sign seems out of place against the beauty. You want it gone. You are filled with determination.

Suddenly, a voice cuts you out of your daydream. It's a feminine one, and a loud one, from a distance away. You only pick up the last half of the phrase. "....doing over there?" Grillby is turned to the direction of the voice, so you follow suit. 

A tall, muscular monster girl stands across the street. She looks somewhat fishlike, with blue scales, and gills framing her lovely face. You notice dark red hair flowing down her back in a ponytail, and conclude that she is quite beautiful. 

"Yes, Undyne, what is it?" Grillby's reply to her is curt. He knows her, you realize. Your mind starts to race: what are they? Enemies, friends...

Lovers?

"Well, I don't know if it's the whole newly-married-honeymoon-phase-shit that's fucking my eyesight up, but," her strong arms point to the house next to the one you're at. It's charcoal gray, with an impeccable garden. "Isn't _that_ your house? And not the one you've parked at?"

The house next to the one for sale belongs to Grillby? You fix him with a confused expression. He catches your gaze and flushes, his face turning bright blue.

Under his breath he whispers, "Oh, _fuck_."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, the hashtag "letgrillbysayfuck" was born.


	7. From House to Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "El Manana" by The Gorillaz.

  


You can feel the tension blowing across the street like an awkward fog. Grillby's at a loss for words, and you're too confused to know what to say. The six of you stand rigid, glancing at one another. The question is unspoken: _Who will speak first?_

Ally comes to your rescue. "Can we look at the house now? It's beautiful!"

A flash of understanding appears across the fish woman's (Undyne's?) face. She gives your group of friends a rather aggressive-looking grin. "So! You punks looking to buy?" 

You find your voice, saying, "Well, we're _looking_. We met Grillby last night, and this morning he offered to show us a few decent houses in the area." Here you stop, throwing the bartender a snarky smirk. "However, he seemed to have _forgotten_ that he owned the house next to this one!"

He's put on the defensive. Flames shooting high up, he quickly exclaims, "I did _not_ forget! I was going to tell you just now." The entirety of his face is bright blue now, from sharply-angled jaw to flickering hairline. 

"Sure, hot stuff, sure," Undyne (That's her name, right? You're pretty sure that's it.) laughs, then addresses you again. "Well, if Grillby over here's sweet on you, then you can't be half bad." 

"You misunderstand!" Grillby stutters, "I'm not- we're not-"

"The name's Undyne." She crosses the street to meet you, holding out a webbed hand. "My wifey's at work, but I'll make sure y'all'll get acquainted." 

"____," you reply, shaking her hand. A part of you is relieved she's married, but you try your best to hide it. "Nice to meet you." There's a bad taste in your mouth, and when you pull back from the handshake you know why. The frantic crackling Grillby was making has subsided. He panicked, you realize, because someone thought you two were together. You think back to his defensive nature, his desperate stammering that went on just moments ago. Your friends are introducing themselves. All the while you lean against the iron gate of the house that isn't even yours.  
Is the idea of being with you really that bad?

"____, would you like to see the inside of the house?" Grillby's looking at you now. "I know the realtor. They won't have a problem with it." 

"Sure," you reply, simultaneously jaded and wistful for him. You can hardly look at his gentle face when you walk through the door. 

The interior is nice, you come to find. With three bedrooms, a large kitchen, and a ridiculously extensive bathtub, the house is plenty for you and Kyle to live in. Well, that's the conclusion you would've made if you had actually thought about it during the tour. Which you didn't. When you exit through the back door, Grillby's words are still on your mind.

 _"You misunderstand! I'm not- we're not..."_ Such harsh urgency. You feel sick to your stomach still. 

At the front gate, you muster a smile to fix him with. "Thanks for the motorcycle ride, and for showing me the house. It's pretty nice." 

"My pleasure," he muses. There's a beat of silence that's barely too long. Grillby fixes you with a curious gaze, and his tone drops to something different, something less bold and more worried. "____, are you okay? You've acted strange since we pulled up to the house."

You feel your stomach knot up and your chest seize. Some part of you wants so badly to hold him, and yet another wants nothing more than to leave. You speak slowly, voice level, saying, "Yeah, it's all good. I'm fine. Thinking a lot about the house."

"Are you sure that's it?" You watch his fiery eyebrows knit together. The sight fills you with guilt.

"Yeah, that's it. I'm fine, Grillby, but thanks for worrying."

"Hey ____!" Kyle's voice comes from the Jeep, "Unless you're taking Grillby back to the hotel with us, then come on!" A series of cackles follows, from all three of them. You love your friends. They're always there when you need them.

Except for when you're internally struggling.

"You're lost again." Grillby calls you back to reality, his voice growing more and more concerned. Before he speaks he drops several octaves, and takes another step towards you. "____, I can tell you aren't okay. You've been in your head for the past hour. Something's on your mind. I only know this because I do the same thing all the time." 

At his words your posture eases, as does his expression. You feel the warm summer air blowing at your arm, and realize in all this commotion that you forgot how pretty everything has looked today. A smile easily finds its way to your lips, and it's a genuine one this time.

"I'm sorry about not telling you about the house being next to mine," he says, quietly, calmly. "I was worried that if you knew I would come off as too clingy, or perhaps just altogether creepy." Biting into his lip, he sighs. "I suppose that's what you think now, and I can't exactly blame you. If that ruined your impression of the house, or of me, then I'll own up to the burden of it. Once again, I'm sorry."

You're speechless. Looking back, you see that your friends have fallen silent as well. Grillby's face is guilt-covered, with a jagged frown and downcast glasses. He walks you to the truck, opening the passenger door for you without another word. Kyle's library is playing quietly through the speakers.

_"...Lost my mind_

_Lord, I'm fine_

_Maybe in time_

_You'll want to be mine..."_

"Grillby, it's..." You start, but you're cut off.

"No, it isn't. I've clearly betrayed your trust somehow, and considering I've nearly lied to you for the sake of preserving your impression of me, then that's obviously a problem." He holds out a hand to help you into the vehicle. Your fingers are warm in his, and it seems as if your entire hand can fit onto his palm. "Again, ____, I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. I never meant to hurt you. I enjoyed meeting you, and even relished my time with you." His smoldering eyes meet yours. "Please enjoy the rest of your stay in the city."

When his hand leaves yours, you feel wrong. Every bit of you begs, _say it, say that's okay, say what's bothering you_ , and you almost do it, too. You go to open your mouth, but the words can't seem to form on your tongue. Then the wait's too long. Your shoulders shake with the shutting of the door.

  



	8. From Hers to His

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song is "Come and Get Your Love" by Redbone!!

_____: So that's what happened._

_Ally: That's rough, buddy._

_Ally: I'm sure he didn't mean it that way tho, I guess he was just gettin all nervous at the thought of you and him bein a thing?_

_____: That could be true._

_Ally: But what about you? And you and him?_

_____: I mean. I'm not sure if I'm interested or anything. Fuck, I just met him yesterday. But. He's really attractive, there's no arguing that._

_Ally: Hot._

_____: Wow, thanks, SANS._

_____: That reminds me. He asked me to meet him and Frisk tonight._

_Ally: Ooooh._

_____: At Grillby's. Fuck._

_Ally: Well maybe when you go you two can make up. Or make out. Whatever. Same thing._

_____: ALLY._

_Ally: Shhhh I'm kidding I'm kidding._

_Ally: Maybe I'm not._

_____: Ally, I'm leaving now._

The car is pulling into the now-familiar parking lot, inching into a space just a bit too tight for a Jeep. You practically sling your phone into your purse as you hop out of the car. Eager to escape more confrontation with Ally, phone or in-person, you haul ass into the hotel lobby. To your delight, the bed in room 413 is straightened. The maid must have moved your mess of clothes-and-everything-else-but-lipstick elsewhere, and upon further inspection you confirm this. Your once-strewn belongings sit in a pile on top of the suitcase, which has been relocated to a closet you didn't even notice was there before. The note from Sans sits on the nightstand, untouched. 

In time you find yourself flopping onto the bed, seeking downtime and thought. You find your eyes fluttering from the sheer exhaustion. Nevertheless, you analyze the day as if it were a science experiment. Were you perhaps overthinking what happened with Grillby? After all, he _did_ misinterpret your sadness, and what he did attribute it to, he apologized for. Your eyes shut, leaving you with the silence of your thoughts. Should you simply push the problem aside, and meet him with a smile tonight? But then again...

He said goodbye...

When you open your eyes, the gentle violet of the sky welcomes you back to the real world with open arms. You're almost lulled to relaxation. Then, however, you notice the golden flickering of street lamps in the night, and you're reminded of it all. Grillby, his glow, his bar. His bar. You have to be there in about... 

...The clock reads 7:02...

...In about now. Oh _shit._ You're up with a jolt, sending the sheets whooshing behind you as you scramble for an outfit that hasn't been slept in. Your wrinkled top and socks are exchanged for a simple red blouse and black shoes. The jeans can stay, you decide after a once-over in the mirror. A quick brush through your hair makes it look presentable, and dots of concealer do the same to your face. Lipgloss is in your purse, which you grab before walking out the door. Transportation isn't a problem; you can take a bus into the quarter so your friends won't be disturbed. Nevertheless, you _should_ let them know where you're going. You power-walk down the hall, stopping only to knock at Kyle's door. 

"Yeah?" When he opens the door you get a good look at him, and it's clear he's been sleeping. With his crust-cornered eyes and messy hair, he is quite the image. "Where're you off to?" At this point Jameson must have heard the commotion, because he pokes his head out of his room. Ally, on Kyle's other side, opens her door as well.

"Grillby's," you explain, "Sans asked me to meet him there tonight. I'm already late, and I don't want to bother y'all to get dressed and drive out with me, so I'm about to catch a bus."

"Cool," is all Kyle says, and he's turning to shut the door without anything else.

But Jameson chimes in, "Hold on," and Kyle is forced back into the hallway with the three of you. "So you're leaving your friends and going out to a bar with someone you hardly know just because he asked you to?" The way he phrases it squicks you. 

"Well, I didn't want to make you guys get up and go out when you clearly wanted to rest," you reply, "And yes, I'm going out because he asked me to, and I like his company."

"As opposed to ours?" The retort is snappier than a rubber band. You feel the blow of it cut through the air and hit you, hard. 

"What do you mean?" You take a step back. This isn't like Jameson at all, not the one you're used to. "I spent all day with you guys, I don't see a problem if-"

"It wouldn't be, if you had actually spent the day with us. But if I recall correctly, you were attached at the hip to Grillby all afternoon!" He exclaims, sending a wave of warm pain into your stomach. "The same for last night, and now tonight!"

"Jameson," Ally breathes, "calm down; she just wants to go out. She's allowed to talk to people and make friends. It's okay."

"But it's not okay," Jameson snaps, "It's not okay when all she wants to do is spend time with her new friends that she just met last night, and ditch her friends for the whole trip, the trip we all planned _together_. And it's not okay for her to go out every minute and do whatever she so desires all the time and leave her real, true friends to pick up the mess and just expect them to let her come and go when she pleases!" His words string together as they come out. Your eyes blur, threatening to sting. The all-too-familiar lump in your throat arrives. However, it appears he's not finished. "I'm just tired of it! I'm tired of _you_ going out and leaving us," here, Jameson turns to Ally, "and _you_ being drunk when _we warned you to be careful!_ And _you_ ," he begins to point at Kyle, but the finger is lowered as he trails off.

"I haven't done anything yet," Kyle says with a shrug. The simple movement, however, is the snowflake that causes the Avalanche.

Jameson opens his mouth to yell, but instead merely heaves a sigh of resignation. Slowly, he looks at the three of you, gradually sounding out the words, "Okay. Do whatever you want. I won't bother you or get in your way. I'm just not cleaning up messes anymore. I'm too tiring, and that's not what friends do, anyway." He opens his door, addressing you from over his shoulder now. "You can take the Jeep for now, but just keep it safe, and bring it home when you're all finished here." There's a jingling noise, and metal hits you in the shoulder. When you pick the keys up off of the ground, they're freezing. 

"Wait," you start, "what are you-"

"Don't freak out if I'm not here tomorrow morning. I'm guessing the soonest flight home is around 6:00, but if it's later, then don't wait up for me."

"Jameson, you're being ridiculous," Kyle sighs from next to you. His sandy hair is going to be greasy by the time he's finished running his hands through it in his worry. "You don't need to leave or anything."

"If staying means I have to babysit, then yes, I do." He steps fully into the hotel room. You can see his bags are neat by the doorway, and you don't know what's more sad: him maintaining his neat and composed nature throughout all these feelings he's had, or him planning to leave ahead of time. You opt not to ask which is the case here. "I'll see you back at the dorm whenever you decide to come back. If ever. I hope you enjoy yourselves," Jameson says, and the door quietly clicks shut.

You don't care that Kyle recedes back into his room awkwardly, you don't care that your mascara is running, and you don't care that the garish hotel clock reads 7:26. A shaking hand finds the door of room 417. You are not surprised to find it locked, cold, and unanswered. When your shoulders slump against the striped wallpaper, and your knees buckle with weak ease, you hardly notice until your bottom finds the carpet.

Ally stands in front of you, her lean form hardly making a shadow. "You know," she says, barely whispering, "I can try to take care of this. You can go on and meet Sans." Considering she is typically loud, you are caught off guard. Still, despite your shocked expression, she continues, calmer and quieter than you've ever seen her before. "I mean it. You made these plans. Now go honor them." 

A few chilling seconds tick by before you find your voice. "You sure? I don't want to leave you, and it doesn't feel right that-"

"____." Her hand is in yours, and she's pulling with such ease and grace that you're quickly back on your feet without any effort on your part. "Go out to the bar and relax. I mean it. I've got this, I promise. And trust me," here she stops. Through the bleariness you can see her one-eyed gaze on you- specifically, your chest, and she finishes, "you need the downtime. Now go fix your mascara and get out there." Without another word, she nudges you to the side, and patiently knocks on Jameson's door.

_"What's the matter_

_With you?_

_Feel right,_

_Don't you feel right, baby?"_

Grillby's watch reads 7:45 when he concludes that he does _not_ feel right. Frisk's song selection drifts through the bar smoothly, and he watches them swing their legs to the beat. He finishes their burger quickly, handing it to them from across the bar. 

"Thanks, Grillbz," they tell him with an easygoing, contagious smile. "Your burgers are the best ever." The now-thirteen-year-old pulls on their hoodie strings to even them out, and then turns their attention to the burger. "If you could _not_ hog all the ketchup, Sans, that'd be swell."

Sans, from next to Frisk, hands the child the ketchup. He'd decided against the Bloody Mary tonight, Grillby learned earlier, due to Frisk's presence. Turning to the bartender, Sans murmurs, "I wonder if ____'s gonna show up. I told her she's welcome to come, and that we'd be here at 7 an' all. Maybe she got _cold_ feet."

Grillby, seeing his opportunity to explain, leans closer to Sans, saying under his breath, "I may be at fault for that." 

"Whadda you mean, Grillbz?

"I mean," he clears his throat, dropping his voice lower, "I mean I fucked up _royally_." He doesn't speak often, and when he does, it tends to cause a commotion. Seeing Sans's confused expression, he elaborates. "I saw ____ and her friends when I went for lunch today. She mentioned looking for real estate here, and..."

"And you showed her the one next to yours?"

"Exactly. However, I opted not to tell her that I lived next door, for the sake of not coming off as overbearing or obsessive. But we arrived there, and she loved it, and then-"

"Let me guess," Sans takes a shot of ketchup and then, looking Grillby dead in the eyes, says, "Undyne."

"I wouldn't blame the whole thing on her, per say, but... Yes. Undyne."

"And then ____ figured somethin was _fishy_ about you?"

"And then she left," Grillby finishes. He sighs, running a hand through his flaming hair. Somewhere off at the other side of the restaurant, the door jingles. Just this once, he thinks to himself, the customer can wait. "I'm so sorry for ruining your arrangement, Sans. I simply wish I could go back and explain myself further to her. God, she looked so distraught when she left. Looking at her like that made _me_ distraught, and I just... I've made such a mistake, Sans. I wish I could make it up to you for all the trouble. And to her, too, and-"

"Hate ta interrupt ya, Grillbz," Sans says, grinning, "But you got a new patron to serve." 

_"If you want some, take some,_

_Get it together, baby_

_Come and get your love_

_Come and get your love..."_

It's 7:50, and Grillby thinks you look best in red.

  



	9. From Meeting to... Moving?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is "Can't Get No (Satisfaction)" By The Rolling Stones.

  


The bus ride was relatively easy, taking you from a shopping center just next to the hotel to the edge of the French Quarter. Grillby's was a short walk from there; however, standing at the door, your shaking legs would hardly move. Somehow, despite your anxiety, you've managed to find yourself seated at the bar. It's just as busy as last night, if not busier. Everyone seems to flit about the room, openly conversing with everyone else. After a second of gathering yourself you notice Grillby at the other end of the bar, inclined closely towards Sans. You think he's cute with his head slightly tilted like that. 

Next to Sans sits a child, probably middle-school-aged. They wear an old-looking striped hoodie, and while you don't like jumping to conclusions, you can't help but figure that the child is Frisk. You haven't seen the monster ambassador on the news in probably two years, considering it took about three for the monsters to receive full rights. It doesn't appear as if they've changed much, though: their face still has a juvenile roundness to it, and their hair remains in the familiar bob cut. They say something to Sans, who begrudgingly hands them the ketchup. 

But then Grillby's looking at you, and you realize you've been staring too long, and before you know it he's walking this way (oh shit oh shit). Quickly you busy yourself, fiddling with the neckline of your shirt to try and cover your embarrassment. However, this seems to blow back up in your face when the shirt droops forward, exposing more of your cleavage than you'd like. You're fumbling now, trying desperately to fix your shirt, but it keeps falling down, and you're absolutely goddamn mortified, and Grillby is getting quite an eyeful, and-

"Care for a drink?" 

That _fucker_. That _smooth bastard_. You're utterly floored, sitting slack-jawed at the bar, and he's simply _there_ , all smiles as if nothing happened. His eyes haven't even left your face. You decide you can put your feelings about this afternoon to the side; after all, he's put his aside, hasn't he?

"Captain and Sprite," you reply, and finally meet his eyes with confidence. "Please."

You watch him make the drink: Ice first, then a layer of rum. The rest of the glass is filled with the soda. Pulling the tiny red straw from seemingly nowhere, Grillby stirs quickly. The ice clinks together and against the glass like dancers in a crowded club. A lime slice serves as their disco ball, wedged into the rim of the highball. He's about to hand you the concoction when a voice calls from across the bar.

"Bring it here, Grillbz. ____'s got herself an commitment to honor." Sans shoots you a smile. There's a mysterious smugness hidden in the corners of his mouth. What's it for? You catch yourself over-analyzing as you take the seat next to him. "Where've you been, pal?"

Your eyes are towards the honey-wood floor. "My nap ended being a small hibernation."

"It's all good. I was getting worried that you'd gone and _rum_ off."

The child groans, choosing to give him the stink-eye over their hot chocolate. 

"You know, ya look just like your mom when you do that, kid."

Sans gets a tongue stuck out at him in response. 

The skeleton finally sighs, "You little shit," and says to you, "____, this is Frisk. Toriel's kid." 

Despite the big attitude Frisk apparently possesses, they give you a small grin, holding a hand out to you. You take their soft, small fingers in yours, and shake gently. 

"Nice to meet you, Frisk."

They're silent for a minute, eyeing you curiously. Then, they finally say, "You and Grillby are matching." The words, no matter how simple, turn your face a vibrant pink. You flush further when you notice the bartender is in front of you, listening. _This is great._

Then Sans pipes up, "Wow, ____, the kid's right. Did you two plan this or something?" _Just fucking great._

You take a _big_ swallow of your drink, stalling for time to think of something to say back. However, to your surprise, Grillby beats you to it.

"No, we didn't, and whether we did or not is none of your business anyway, _Sans_. But even if we did," Here, he pauses to look at you specifically, "she'd be just as stunning as she is now." By the time he's finished his face is burning blue, but you're too busy being a tomato to care. You can't decide if he made the situation better or worse, so instead of debating it further you choose to drink.

Sans can't stop snickering. Frisk's grin nearly mirrors his, stretching from one end of their chubby face to the other. An urge wells up in you to pinch their cheek, but you have a feeling they wouldn't like that. You watch them hop down from the barstool, cocoa in hand, and shuffle to the jukebox. The monsters, no matter how inebriated, part to make a path across the bar floor. It's only then that you understand just how much they respect Frisk. The highly-esteemed child then proceeds to fish a folded dollar from their pants pocket and insert it into the machine. You give your drink a stir while you watch them. Their fingers sweep across the touch-screen, typing, scrolling, and finally tapping. As Frisk walks back to the bar the lights of the jukebox fade from blue to red. 

_"I can't get no satisfaction_

_I can't get no satisfaction_

_'Cause I try and I try_

_And I try and I try_

_I can't get no_

_I can't get no..."_

"Another?" Grillby's fiery fingers are wrapped around your empty drink. They drum against the glass, tapping to the beat of the music.

"I'd love one," you tell him, meeting his flickering white eyes. The smile on his face is well-worth it. Your eyes stay on him the whole time, and he's already made this drink for you once, but you just _love_ watching him mix. Grillby serves you your highball, which is, as the rest of his drinks have been, perfect. 

_"Baby, better come back_

_Later next week_

_Can't you see_

_I'm on a losing streak_

_I can't get no_

_Oh, no no no..."_

You notice amidst your drink that Sans has attention on you yet again. "____, Grillbz tells me he helped you and your pals look at a house today."

"A house?" Frisk's eyes just absolutely light up with curiosity. You see in their gaze intelligence, eagerness. "Are you moving here?" 

"I might be," you tell them, "and the one Grillby showed me today was really pretty!"

"So you liked it?" Sans asks with a grin, "Would you wanna move there? And have Grillbz here be your neighbor?" 

You spend a moment thinking of how to answer. The house truly _was_ lovely. Was your trip clouded by your emotions towards Grillby, who you know only meant well? 

Biting your lip, you look back up, your eyes flying first to Sans, then to Frisk, and lastly, to Grillby. "Actually, I think I'd like that."

  



	10. From Distractions to Gloves

  


Grillby is no stranger to the evening crowd. In fact, he welcomes it with open arms, considering every night rush an opportunity to showcase his abilities. Any challenge brought to the bartender's evening is just another milestone to conquer. By now, the typical weekend is no problem to him; it's his favorite part about being on the surface, he's found.

But when something keeps him from his work, _that's_ when he gets irritated. There's a phrase ringing in his ears as of now, over and over, invading beautifully into the sound of the bar. _Actually, I think I'd like that._ Moving in next to him, that is, and Grillby's shell-shocked from the change in your attitude... So shocked his mind isn't in his work anymore. _Shit._

He's surprised to find that, as distracting as you are, his favorite part about this weekend is talking to you. It's almost childish, the way he keeps catching himself looking your way. Currently you're immersed in a story Frisk is telling. Grillby watches the movements of your eyebrows, the small nods you give as you listen, the little quirks of your smile. _How intriguing._ Before he knows it, he's backed up with orders.

"Grillbyyyyyyyy... Where's my Long Island Iced Teaaaaa? You're j-just standing therrrre!" It appears that a rabbit regular who tends sit in one particular booth has made her way up to the bar. She gazes through him, her poor inebriated head propped on one paw. Grillby gives her a nod to convey that he heard her, and gets back to work. It's fairly easy for him to catch up; most of the patrons need only a simple refreshing of their cocktail before they're satisfied. 

A soft, sweet voice calls out, "Hey, Grillbz?" and the phrase can barely be uttered before he's whipping around to serve the speaker, to serve _you._ He's drawn to that red top again, mesmerized by just how damn lovely you look in it. It hugs your shoulders and your waist, and drapes a bit at your bust. His eyes don't linger for long _there_ , of course; that would be rude, highly inappropriate, and altogether of an immature nature. Once or twice, he catches Sans glimpsing towards your spot of cleavage, and Grillby wants nothing more than to smack his friend upside the skull. 

He closes the gap between you two, looks you in the eyes. "Yes, ____?"

"Okay, so Sans was telling me how good your fries were..." As you speak he takes note of the timidity in your tone. Your voice quavers. It's not nearly as much as that of Doctor Alphys, Grillby notes, but there is still a gentle shake to it. "And I thought maybe if you weren't busy, I'd like to get some."

Grillby doesn't recall ever getting an order ready this fast. Nevertheless, a large plate of steaming fries is in front of you in mere minutes. His dress shoes scuffle across the floor as he steps back to give you your space. A small part of him wants to watch your expression as you eat his food, wants your approval wildly. 

"Grillby, can I get another hot chocolate?" It appears fate has something else in mind, and fate comes in the form of Frisk waving him over. He doesn't mind the child; in fact, he's been charmed by them ever since they first stepped into his original place back in Snowdin. It warms Grillby's heart (goddamnit Sans) to see that their determination hasn't left them, and neither has that striped hoodie that complements them so well. So the fire monster smiles, walks over to the child, and takes their mug to refill. When he hands the drink back, he's met with a hushed voice.

"Pssst. Grillby. C'mere, closer." 

Once he's leaned over to be just centimeters away from Frisk, he asks, "Yes? What's so secret?" 

"Ssshhhh. They'll hear. Come closer." By now their voice is a mere wisp of a sound. Grillby doesn't think he can get any closer. Frisk proves him wrong. Their voice contains no amusement. "Okay. Serious question here. You ready?" 

"I'm listening," Grillby rasps back, wondering all the while just _what_ the child is up to.

"Do you think ____'s hot?"

Christ on a fucking unicycle. He cannot catch a break tonight. First with Sans, now Frisk? Grillby's exasperated to hell and back at this point, yet because this is Frisk, he keeps patience, composure, and, yes, determination.

Very quietly, and very, very, slowly, he replies, "I wouldn't know if I would use the word _hot_ for her just yet. I do think she's pretty."

"Kay."

And just as fast as the interrogation began, it is over, and Frisk is bringing the hot chocolate mug up to their face to block Grillby from saying anything else. He's left immensely puzzled, pulling back to survey his bar with his mind in a flurry. 

The first thing he notices is the empty plate in front of you.

Shortly after Grillby's watch beeps to indicate that it is 10:00, Frisk yawns and itches at their deep brown eyes. Over the course of the evening they have become less talkative, now to the point of silence. They tug on Sans's sleeve.

"You tired, kid?" 

Their forehead hits the skeleton's shoulder with a _bonk._ Words aren't needed. Grillby and you watch Sans hop down from the barstool, grab the child's hand, and help them down as well. 

"Seems like this is the second night I'm takin' sleepy humans back home," he grunts, "Think I should open a cab company or somethin? I think it'd be a really _suber_ idea." 

Frisk somehow finds the energy to groan, and you stifle laughter, yet all Grillby can do is look at you. He's dumbfounded by the foolishnes of his own actions. _What could possibly be wrong with him tonight?_

"Put it on my tab, Grillbz, ____'s, too." 

"Sans," you cry out, "that's not necessary! I have my own money, I can pay for it myself!" 

"Nah," Sans replies, and turning to Frisk, he ends the conversation. "C'mon, kiddo, shortcut time."

The child can only murmur out a, "Nnnnnnnn," and give you and Grillby a small wave.

"Don't get too _bonely _without me, guys," Sans says to you both, then adds with a smirk, "Guess you two can have some quality _boneding_ time, though. Heh."__

"Sans-" Grillby starts, but before he can say anything else, the skeleton and the child are gone. 

With the absence of Sans, the bar patrons slowly begin to filter out. Booths are cluttered with empty glasses and the occasional plate, and Grillby is zigzagging around the restaurant. He doesn't think himself a neat freak, but he _does_ like to keep things clean. The plates stack easily, and then cups stack onto the plates, and before he knows it, the tower has exceeded the height of even lesser dog (once fully pet, that is). Grillby has to struggle to keep his balance as he carries the immense pile to the sink. Not one dish breaks; however, he almost has an incident with the faucet in the process. 

"Are you alright?!" You're calling to him from the bar, and when he looks back at you he's met with an expression of concern. "I can help you if you want!" 

Not wanting to raise his voice, he simply gives you a thumbs-up and returns to his work. There are few enough patrons that he has time to wash the dishes. The routine is a careful, precise procedure for him, and because of this, it is a slow routine as well. 

First, he rolls his sleeves, buttoning them just at his biceps. Then he must get his gloves. They're all in a drawer below the sink, in the cardboard boxes they came in. Grillby layers them acutely: first, the latex, one short pair over one long pair. Then the yellow rubber pair, over the latexes. He finishes with a fourth pair of gloves, and it's another long latex pair that covers whatever his shirtsleeves don't. The tricky part comes next, and though he has perfected this routine over many years, he's always cautious of it. 

Grillby turns the water on. 

And you come running. 

You're stumbling over your actions, hurrying to turn the water off, stammering out worried garbles ("Are you okay?" "I could've helped you!"), and it's about two minutes before you calm down enough to notice the gloves. 

And you. Crack. Up. 

"Well," you heave amidst hysterical giggles, "don't you look _glovely_!" 

Grillby can only sigh in response. 

You go on. "How many pairs is that? Ten?" 

"Only four," he replies, and much to your delight, he adds, "Do you think I need ten?" 

In response, you grab the boxes of gloves and put them on the counter. Laughing his crackling chuckle, Grillby holds his hands out to you. He watches you pull out another pair of rubber gloves and open one in his direction. Slowly he slides his hand in, and you help his fingers find the appropriate spots. You do the same with the other hand. All the while, all Grillby can really focus on is the fact that he can still feel your hand through five pairs of gloves. 

To him, you're freezing. 

You both compromise on Grillby wearing only seven pairs of gloves. They're on his arms in blurry layers of yellow and clear, and when you're done putting them on you're both laughing messes. Nearly all of the bargoers have finished their drinks, paid, and gone, leaving you two mostly alone in the restaurant. Grillby leans over the sink, scrubbing the dishes with a sponge, while you watch. 

"At least let me dry them," you say. "It'll help you get done faster." 

"Thank you for the lovely offer, ____," he replies, "but I can't ask you to do that for me." Why would you want to clean on your vacation? The idea baffles Grillby. "I do this on a nightly basis, and hardly anything ever happens. Now sit down and relax." 

You're silent, and he thinks he's won. Then he notices a cloth in your hand, and a growing stack of sparkling glasses on your side of the counter, and he can feel the flames atop his head rising, nearly erupting. 

You seem to notice his flaming frustration, and tell him, without looking at him, "You've done a lot for me. From the free drinks, to the house thing today, this is the least I can do." There's a pause, and during that pause Grillby notices you've stopped cleaning and you're staring directly up at him. "I insist." 

You say you insist, yet he can insist further. He's irate, refusing to be beaten at this little game of favors. "Well, if you insist on helping me clean my bar," he snaps, "then I must insist on taking you home after we've finished!" 

It's not until he takes a breath and sees your face reddening that Grillby realizes the nature of what he just said. 

  



	11. From Closing to Drop-Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is "Handclap" by Fitz and the Tantrums

  


Did...

Did he just say what you think he said? That he was taking you _home_ with _him_? Or did you mishear? One look at Grillby's face tells you that you didn't. The blue dusting his cheeks, however, _does_ make you realize that he could've mixed his words up. Before you know it, though, a daydream is playing out in your head, one where you're back at that lovely charcoal house of his. _He's parking in his driveway and stepping off the Harley. Your hand is in his when you reach the porch illuminated by warm bronze lamps. But of course, he shines brighter. He fumbles with the key for a moment, turns it in the lock, turns to you, and-_

"____? Are you alright?" His smokey voice cuts you out of the daze, and you come away from it confused.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Good," Grillby sighs, "I meant to say that I would be taking you to your room at the hotel. I never meant to insinuate-"

"I understand perfectly, Grillby," you say amongst laughter, "you don't have to explain yourself to me." You don't know where the wink comes from, but it punctuates your reply.

Though the flames atop his head rise higher, he manages a light chuckle. "I suppose you're ready to leave now, then? If you'll allow me a short minute, I'll close the bar, and then we can be on our way."

Plopping onto a stool obediently, you watch as Grillby closes the restaurant. All the glasses are cleaned and hung neatly in their racks: first the champagne flutes, then the wine goblets, then the highballs, and so on. You sit transfixed, staring into the warped reflections of the martini glasses in particular. From the shine you can see Grillby behind you, cleaning still. He stands out stylishly against the honey-colored wood of the bar. All the while he saunters from one end of the bar to the other, sending the shadows into an erratic sway wherever he goes. The tables are righted, with chairs gingerly perched on top of them. You figure he sweeps before opening the next day.

"Just a few more things to do," he calls, "Are you okay?"

"Perfect!"

"Then excuse me for just a moment," he quips, and then steps through yet another door behind the bar. After glancing around and not seeing anything glaringly obvious you can do to help, you stay seated. Your eyes drift to the windows of the bar, where a partying nightlife overlooks the obviously-closing restaurant.

The sound of a door opening and closing beckons you to look away from the window. Grillby is back in the pristine blue button-down from earlier, with his work outfit nowhere to be seen. After coming to the conclusion that he changes and keeps his uniform in the back room, you hop from the barstool. You're at his side when he unplugs the neon "OPEN" sign at the front. He opens the door, and you're met with a slight gust of air.

He holds it for you. "All that's left to do is turn off the lights. Would you like to finish for me?"

You've never been more excited to flip a simple fucking light switch.

Grillby's motorcycle is several blocks away, he explains. It's a fifteen minute walk through the New Orleans night crowd, but he hopes you don't mind. You don't.

"The streets can get congested with the nightlife, and not all of it is safe," he murmurs to you as you round a corner, "This may come off as an odd request, but I'd like you to stay very close to me."

In response, you step closer to his side. As you hit the next street, though, you learn that it's not close enough. Suddenly the all-too-familiar reek of alcohol hits you, wrapping around your face like an inescapable mask. Ten people on the street turn into two hundred, and just as many different sounds pound into your ears. You're trying so hard to take it all in when you realize you're missing something.

No, someone.

_Where's Grillby?_

You are filled with blind panic. Though you stop in your tracks, your head seems to spin, and your mind goes completely blank. People bump into you, roughly nudging you from one side of the pavement to the other to get by. You're disoriented now, and even worse, the fire monster remains nowhere to be seen. The people shuffle around you, oblivious to your panic. You _have_ to get yourself together.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, ____!_

Somehow, without him, and without mind, you will your legs to move, first out of the crowd, and then to figure which way to go. Upon turning you see a familiar corner a short distance away, the one you and Grillby rounded just moments before all this chaos occurred. With that as a point of orientation, you walk in the opposite direction. The fact that you have _absolutely no fucking idea_ where he's parked is pushed to the back of your mind. For now, the only thing that matters is that you are over your panic, and you are victorious. He told you that the walk was fifteen minutes, so you and your independent self are going to walk in this direction for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes. An easy fifteen minutes through a crowd that _definitely_ doesn't bother you anymore. 

You make it five minutes before there's a hand on your shoulder. At first you think it's an accident, but when the grip pulls you closer, you feel a knot of fear take hold in your stomach. Thinking fast, you bring your elbow forward, ready to jerk it back, and- 

"I thought I told you to stay close to me," a deep, familiar voice murmurs in your ear. "I've asked you this so much, so excuse my being a worry-wort, but, are you alright?" Grillby stands tall to your left, with his right arm wrapped around your shoulder now. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." You try an easygoing smile with the words, "And I thought I _was_ close." 

"You simply stood next to me, ____. That wasn't close, not for this traffic." The two of you begin walking again, side by side, disaster averted. For a mere moment (and you almost miss it) you hear his breath catch. The sound reminds you of a sweet, fleeting wisp of smoke, carried to your ears by a glance. He's looking at you with baited breath. Then, before you can fully process the action, Grillby grips your shoulder even more so than before, and pulls for your side to be flush with his. "This is close." 

You don't object to it. In all you consider it a sweet gesture, for him to keep you close in the crowd like this. In addition to that, you've felt the evening air tugging at the hem of your blouse. It's quite cold out, and he's just so goddamn warm. His arm around your shoulders can be considered a blessing as you weave through the immense city crowd. You make pleasant conversation while the faces pass. And honestly, the entire endeavor is serving as an ego boost: with Grillby's gentle words and tall, muscular stature beside you, you feel invincible. 

It isn't long at all before you reach the motorcycle. The Harley sits in a lot overlooking the Mississippi River, which sparkles in the moonlight. Grillby hands you the helmet while searching for his keys and you fumble with it for a bit, struggling in the darkness for a short moment. You think you have the helmet fastened and he somehow tightens it onto you further. With a loud whir and a flicker of lights, the motorcycle turns on. 

In the glow of headlights and flames you see that he's donned a leather jacket, and ask, "Where'd that come from?" 

"In the storage compartment," he explains, "It gets cold riding at night." 

Though you think you remember Ally mentioning something about monsters not feeling temperature, you dismiss it. Grillby's leg swings high over the motorcycle when he moves to straddle it. You try to copy his smooth movements, yet struggle a bit, your foot hitting the metal side with a _clang!_

"That sounded painful," he says, looking back over his shoulder. 

"I'm good," is all you say as the small, dull pain in your foot subsides. Will riding in the dark be more dangerous than a daylight ride? You're anxious. When Grillby begins backing out, you hold onto him tightly, closer than you had earlier today. Fine leather brushes your cheek, and you can feel his heat beneath the jacket. He drives out of the parking lot, slowly, surely. 

Stop-and-go traffic keeps you in the quarter for a good 20 minutes. Movement of the motorcycle (when it _does_ move, goddamn you, traffic) is reduced to a slow, gentle scoot, and you ease yourself against Grillby's back. 

At one particularly long stop, he turns back to you. "I forgot to mention it while you were on earlier, but my motorcycle _does_ have the capability to play music." Seeing your confused expression, he elaborated. "Dr. Alphys- that's Undyne's wife, by the way- modified it for me. She used magic, speakers, and," the grin on his face is somewhat sheepish, "I think it's called Bluefin?" 

"Bluetooth?" You try. 

"I suppose that's it." He's ashamed, and you can hear it in his voice. "Anyway, if you'd like, I think you can sync your phone up to the system and play music." 

"Thanks!" Quickly (and even then, you still keep an eye on the car ahead of you) you whip your phone out, going to your settings to sync your phone to the system. After doing so, and then hurriedly finding a song, you tuck the phone back into your pocket. A familiar clapping beat starts the song off and sends it echoing out from the powerful, yet minuscule speakers. Grillby gives a nod of approval just before traffic begins to move. 

Inevitably, the two of you have an unspoken system worked out: He drives through the rough congestion, you pick the music, and when you're stopped, you draw pictures on his back to ease the tension. As your fingers trail abstract swirls over the midnight-colored leather, you feel his shoulders relax. You don't recall why, or when, exactly, he decided he was comfortable with your touch, but he is now. A small sense of joy ripples through you. 

You're tracing something to the effect of a sea serpent on his back when the traffic thins out and he says, "Though that's lovely, I would like to remind you we're about to be going seventy miles an hour." 

"Oh, right," you nod, stopping your drawing and opting instead to hold onto him loosely. 

His flames send sparks into the darkness of the sky. You're so enraptured in the glowing specks that his ask comes out abrupt. "May I make a request?" 

"Sure," you say against his back, "What song?" 

"Um, well," Grillby stammers, "I don't quite know what it's called, but it's the one you played when you first synced your phone to the speakers. I really did like it. If you don't mind, I'd like to hear it again." 

You get out your phone. You don't mind at all. 

_”Turn it up!”_

"You might want to hold on now, ____,” Grillby tells you with a smile, and zooms onto the interstate. 

_"Somebody save your soul_

_'Cause you've been sinning_

_In this city, I know_

_Too many troubles_

_All these lovers_

_Got you losing control..."_

Wind brushes across your neck like a cold, gentle hand, while your own fingers are gripping his leather jacket. It feels like a heated blanket, and in the night breeze you’re grateful for it, for _him_. In basking you catch yourself nearly nuzzling the bartender. _At least he’s paying attention to the road_. Grillby turns his blinker on, veers into the far left lane. The motorcycle speeds up. You’re not sure if the needle actually touches the notch labelled “100,” but it certainly appears to. 

_”…You're like a drug to me_

_A luxury_

_My sugar and gold_

_I want your sex_

_And your affection_

_When they're holdin' you close…”_

At some point you’re aware of your arms being completely around his waist. A tiny, anxious voice in your head wonders if he’s bothered by it. He looks back at you during a strip of isolated road and gives you a gentle smile. The voice silences itself. 

You, however, don’t. “Are we really going 110?” The speed gauge is at a constant, unwavering position. “Oh my god, we’re going 110!” Through helmeted eyes now you see the night sky, speckled with (light pollution and) stars. That’s when your heart stops, when your breath is swept away by the wind and warmth. Bliss and adrenaline intertwine in your system, pumping hard, and the rush is indescribably sweet. 

_”…Every night_

_When the stars come out_

_Am I the only_

_Living soul around?_

_Need to believe_

_You could hold me down_

_'Cause I'm in need of_

_Something good right now…”_

Just as quickly as the ride began, it stops, though, slowing as Grillby drives down an exit ramp. There’s a stoplight almost directly off it. “Sleep Inn in Metairie, correct?” The hotel is in your view, a mere U-turn away. 

“Yeah.” And you tried _so hard_ to hide the disappointment in your voice. You’re not sure if it’s the wind or your imagination, but you think you hear a smoky sigh as well. There’s one space left in the parking lot, and he takes it. You hand him his helmet back. He doesn’t put it on. 

“Aren’t you going to…” 

“I drove you this far,” he says with a grin, “I only see it fit that I walk you to your room. That is, if you’re alright with it." 

You are. 

The door is automatic, but intuition tells you that if it weren’t, he would have held it for you. In the brief glimpse of your reflection you see the messy bird’s nest that is your helmet-hair. Desperately, hastily, you struggle to smooth it with your hands. Loud, popping crackles erupt from next to you, and before you know it, you’re laughing too. The two of you laugh together, through the lobby and over to the stairs. Personally, hotel stairwells have always made you uncomfortable; however, with a laughing, attractive (dare you say _handsome_ ) man of fire next to you, you couldn’t feel safer. His warm hand presses against the small of your back as you walk down your hallway. 

You’re flipping through all the cards in the wallet for your room key when he asks, “____, did you mean it when you said you’d like living here? In that house I showed you?” There’s a pause, and he continues, rubbing the back of his neck. You note that his muscles are particularly lean, gently defined by the flames. “If you’re serious about it, then, well, if you move here, and if you’d like to, because you seemed like you enjoyed our trip tonight, and well- oh _fuck_ , I’m sorry for the rambling.” 

You look up at him and he’s so blue in the face you could’ve mistaken the shade for purple. 

When he speaks next his voice is nearly a rasp. “I’d love to take you for more rides, and even show you more of the city, if you’d like.” 

“Grillby, I’d love that.” Before you can consider your actions, an arm is around his neck, and you’re half-hugging him. For a long moment you can feel him freeze against you. You’re beginning to think you’ve crossed a line when you feel fire licking at your waist. His arms are there, both of them, and your free hand is soon up at his shoulder. You only reach up to his collarbone. Self-consciously, you wonder if the height difference bothers him. The feeling of a chin resting atop your head says otherwise. “Thank you for tonight, by the way.” When you pull away, you look up, and _oh god_ all you can see are Grillby’s eyes and they’re soft white and beautiful and gazing straight at you and- 

“Anytime.” His hands slide across your back and waist as he parts from you. He smiles, straightens his glasses with a finger on their bridge. “I look forward to it. Have a good night.” 

“You too.” 

When you step into your room, you notice two things: One, there’s a mint on your pillow. Two, you’re still warm. 

  



	12. From June to July, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "Skinny Love" by Bon Iver!

_Kyle: morning_

_Kyle: we be at breakfast_

_Kyle: so come down if you wanna_

_Kyle: also i hope your night went okay_

_Kyle: also you dont have to come if you dont want to or if youre tired_

_Kyle: sorry. i didnt want to bother you._

You were awake by the time the second text brought your phone to buzz. Still, though, you wallow in bed, staring at the incoming messages with a tired stink-eye. It's 7:30, and the sunlight is somehow managing to filter through the industrial-strength beige curtains. You're not sure when exactly you fell asleep, but it hasn't been too long. Maybe you can get a little more rest if you just close-

_Buzz._

_Kyle: also sorry again if i woke you up_

You get up and get dressed for breakfast. As you run a brush through your tangled hair, you remember the argument from the night before. Jameson's lashing words and plans to leave have made marks in your mind that make you wince. Nevertheless, you find your shoes and walk downstairs. It's a pleasant surprise, however, to see three waiting faces at the table. 

Your throat's dry all of a sudden, but somehow you manage a, "Good morning."

Before you can properly process anything else, though, there's a set of arms around you. The cotton feel of Jameson's jacket rounds your shoulders and brushes your fingers warmly. "I'm sorry."

"Me too." To your sensitive mind, your voice is gruff.

"No," Jameson starts, "like I really mean it. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. We could've just talked about it; unloading all that was pretty jerky of me."

"But I could've tried to pay more attention to you."

"Well, we can fix that now, all of it," he says, "I want to leave together tomorrow, like we planned. Can we spend a little more time as a group today?" 

You do. 

The day is spent skittering from corner to corner of the French Quarter. At one point, your group finds its way into a marketplace, and before you can blink your friends have vanished into the crowd. When you can finally find Ally, she has purchased more bracelets than you did during your scene phase. For lunch, Cajun shrimp and grits find their way into your mouth.

The summer sun is beating down on your heads when you leave the ritzy café (here Ally makes some remark about not feeling temperature, and here you recall Grillby's leather jacket). Eventually, though, it goes down, and dinner calls like a long-lost friend. Somehow, Kyle manages to get word of a pizza place a short drive off the grid. As the Jeep glides along the interstate, you can't help but think about your late-night ride with Grillby. You went along this same road less than a day before, gliding, basking in wind and heat, just the two of you. For a moment that lasts the duration of dinner, you wonder if you'll be able to see him tonight. The fact that it's 10 o'clock by the time you get back to the hotel room gives you your answer.

Something is up with Grillby. He can't quite place _what_ , though. Did he forget to take his anti-anxiety pills? Perhaps he didn't get enough sleep. Whatever the reason, he just can't seem to fucking focus. He completely missed the mug while pouring his coffee in the morning, and on the way to work he took the wrong turn.

Now at his bar, and unable to keep his attention on anything, he remains baffled by the issue. With fidgeting fingers and wandering eyes he prepares drink after drink. Work today is difficult. Time itself is difficult. It passes erratically, and the hands on the wall clock orbit around their centers like planets without rhythm. What feels like five minutes to Grillby could actually be five minutes, or it could turn out to be two hours. 

Eventually, the bartender settles on the numb practice of going through the motions while his mind wanders. His hands work faster this way, more diligently. He hears what he needs to, yet does not listen. 

Until suddenly, as he is pouring champagne for a budding couple, there is a voice right at his ear. "Hey. Grillbz." 

" _Fuck!_ " The glass hits the floor, with its handler jumping back a foot. And it's done. In the blink of an eye, he is knocked out of his here-but-not- _here_ -routine by a skeleton that's way too good at sneaking up on people. 

"Sorry if I _spooked_ ya, hot stuff. I've been sitting at the bar for five minutes and you haven't even said a word to me." 

"My apologies." Grillby's cleaning champagne and glass shards from the floor. "I've been more distracted today then I want to admit." 

Sans returns to his seat, swiveling a bit on the cushion. "Why? Did your night with ____ go a bit _hotter_ than anticipated?" 

"It wasn't like that!" He retorts as he readies another champagne flute. "I just drove her back to the hotel, dropped her off, and then we talked."

"Mhm. Sure. Talked. What'd you talk in, _body language_?"

" _Sans._ "

"Well, she must've done _something_! Grillbz, you're pouring champagne into a _candle holder._ "

"Really?" Grillby looks down and notices the champagne flute is not actually a champagne flute. The aforementioned couple looks thoroughly concerned. He finds the correct glass, pours the correct drink. "Okay, so she hugged me. That's it. And there might have been a moment where I had the chance to kiss her. If I wanted to. Well, we were looking each other dead in the eyes with our faces only inches apart and I very well _could've_ , but all that does not correlate in any way to my state tonight."

"Grillbz."

"Okay, so it might be a contributing factor."

_"Grillbz."_

The bartender breaks, exclaiming, "But her eyes were remarkable!"

Sans says nothing, yet his face is plastered white with the size of his smile. Grillby takes this break in the conversation to compose himself, dabbing his face with his handkerchief and serving a few patrons. It seems that everything is easier to do after he's vented his frustrations. He fixes a Bloody Mary for Sans, slides it across the bar, checks the time, checks the door when the bell above the threshold jingles. It's not you. It's 10 o'clock and it's not you. 

"Did she say she'd come tonight?" Sans seems to notice the disappointment crossing Grillby's face. 

"No, but after last night I suppose I simply expected her to."

"You think she left already?"

Too quickly Grillby retorts, "She couldn't have!" Realizing the foolishness of his panic, he has to calm himself once again. A flaming hand steadies its body against the bar. Deep breaths now, he tells himself. Inhale the good thoughts, exhale the bad. Cool down before Sans makes a pun out of it. There. Now try again. "I simply thought she would drop by here beforehand, or at least hint at it first..." there's a moment of silence, then anxiety comes creeping into his head. What if you thought last night was goodbye enough, and you were already gone? What if you decided not to move in next to him? What if you changed your mind, what if that was the last time he saw you? That just might be it. Did he _really_ take his pills this morning? You probably weren't coming back.

"Well, her brain must be _melted_ if she decided to turn a _hottie_ like you down!" Sans's bony elbow-bone (elbone?) digs into Grillby's flaming side. He's sucking the last remaining drops of his Bloody Mary through a black stir-stick that the bartender's told him over and over _isn't_ a straw. There's a couple seconds of a strained slurping noise, and then the glass is empty. "____'s sure to turn up. How 'bout I wait for her with you?" 

Grillby agrees to that, and so Sans keeps him company all through the night. At 11, a group of monster tourists wander in. They all order shots of magic-infused tequila, downing them like they're water, and ordering more immediately after. By 11:30, Grillby reminds himself to order more tequila in the morning. At 12, the door jingles with the arrival of a monster-human couple. The two quietly sit at the bar, hand in hand.

"Can I have a-" the human stops, her lips quirking. She turns to the monster and asks, "What was that thing you had earlier today? With the sparkles and the orange taste?"

"Magic Mai Tai, dear," her girlfriend replies with a quaint smile. She turns to Grillby, her three mouths simultaneously speaking, "Make that two, please." 

How cute, Grillby thinks. The two seem to be just so in-sync with each other. He figures they're soulmates. His eyes fly to Sans, who somehow always seems to know everything there is about souls. The smiling skeleton nods after giving the couple a quick once-over. 

The warm lights flicker, and Grillby realizes he's never seen a monster and a human pair of soulmates. It's such an in-depth process, and souls are so particular; he always wondered if such a thing could work. Soon enough, his thoughts fly to you. Could it work with you? Could you be his...

Or can't you? Or won't you? By all logic, the possibility of monster-human soulmating seems unlikely, almost impossible. The couple is arguing over who will be paying for drinks. They're probably a special case, Grillby figures, since it's been years and he's never seen such a thing before. It most likely won't happen again, much less for _him_. So it won't work. 

Because you're you.

Because he's a monster.

At 1:30 Sans grabs his jacket, saying something about having to get home to Papyrus. Grillby nods, says he understands, and the door closes with a monotone jingle. He's left with a near-empty bar and fading hope. With myriads of sighs and hums, he watches the clock. There's a song in his head, one that someone played during the dinner rush that he thought he didn't even listen to. 

_"And I told you to be patient,_

_I told you to be fine_

_I told you to be balanced_

_And I told you to be kind_

_And now if all your love is wasted,_

_Then who the hell was I?"_

And you don't show for the rest of the evening.

  



	13. From June to July, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The featured song is "Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats.

  


"Is everything packed?" Jameson's hoisting his computer bag over his shoulder. You doubt he even used it while here, yet he and the laptop are practically inseparable. He, Kyle, Ally, and you all sit in his motel room, where the bed is made and pressed neatly so the maids won't have to. Your leg bounces against the linen comforter, denim shorts contrasting against the creamy white. 

"I got all the little tiny coffee and tea things from all of your rooms!" Kyle announces. 

You can see the packets sticking out of his cargo shorts and dare to ask, "Is that a teabag in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" Next thing you know, you're giggling, and so is he, and then Jameson and Ally are as well. Kyle chucks a packet of decaffeinated Earl Grey at you, which you pick up and put in your purse after dodging. 

"And everyone's got their room keys to turn in?" Ally, from her seat on the mahogany desk, flashes the three of you two plastic cards. "Pretty sure you've gotta pay a fee if you lost them."

You can hear Kyle whisper, "Oh shit," and when the four of you get to the checkout counter, he forks over an extra five dollars for the absent key card. The wheels on your suitcase squeak as they spin through the lobby and out the automatic doors. With a click of his keys, Jameson pops the trunk open. First in goes Ally's pristine purple luggage, and then Kyle's duffel bag that's barely zipped shut. Your standard-seeming black suitcase follows, and when everyone else's things are loaded, Jameson tosses a leather messenger bag into the trunk. The computer bag is gently placed on top of the pile. 

Jameson shuts the trunk and asks, "Where to for lunch?"

You have an idea.

Grillby's has only been open for 30 minutes, so says the sign on the door. The bar is scarce in visitors at 2:30 in the afternoon; thus, when the bell above the door jingles, all eyes turn to your group. A particular set of eyes burns into you, nearly quite literally. As you find a booth to sit at you can feel Grillby's warm stare at the back of your neck. Nearly instantly there's the sound of loafers tapping against the floor towards you. 

"Good afternoon, and welcome back," he greets your group. The next thing he says, directed at you, is, "I thought you'd left already." His voice is low, with a discreet urgency. 

"Of course not," you reply, "I would've stopped and told you bye first!" 

"Oh," here his face flushes white, "then if you're here today-"

"Yeah," you're sighing, eyes flying to your friends. "We're just grabbing lunch on the way out."

"Hm." At this point Grillby is suddenly aware of your friends. He gives his head a quick shake and prompts, "What can I get you, then? If you're ready, that is." 

Ally fixes Jameson and Kyle with a look you can't see from your spot next to her. The former stifles laughter, the latter smirks, and all you can do is look at Grillby in confusion.

Your lunch is somewhat leisurely, but to your dismay, not leisurely enough. As you are ever-so-slowly scraping the slivers of French fries from your plate, Jameson tells Grillby that your group would like separate checks. You try to stall, and eat slower, but to no avail. The next few minutes proceed quickly, too quickly. Your check arrives. You pay. You hand it back. The only thing to lift your spirits is the bartender's fingers brushing yours when you hand him the leather-bound bill. 

However, when Grillby returns moments later with the folder and your card, your cheeks turn red. In the blank space under the check, in pristine cursive, is a phone number, followed by the phrase, "Call me when you're coming back."

_"We can dance if we want to,_

_We can leave your friends behind_

_Because you're friends don't dance_

_And if they don't-"_

"Turn it down, Jameson, she's on the phone!" Ally snaps suddenly, "Your stupid old dance music sucks anyway!"

"Okay, okay, just don't diss 'Safety Dance' again!" The music quiets down with Jameson's retort, and you can hear your mom better.

"So you said you've found a house?" Her voice is alert on the other end of the line. "In New Orleans?"

"Yeah! It's pretty and white and it's in a nice neighborhood and-"

"Ugh, no fair!" Your mom snorts, "You know I've always wanted to live over there!" 

You don't quite know how to reply to that, so you just laugh. 

She goes on, "So it's going to be all of you there?"

"No, just me and Kyle, probably."

"I don't need to..." there's a sigh, "...worry... about that, do I? There's nothing going on between you two, is there? Because I don't want you going and shacking up with someone so quick, and-"

"Mom. Hell no." That's all you can really say, considering you don't quite know how to tell your mom that your best friend-and your first boyfriend-actually prefers guys. 

"Well, if you say so. You wouldn't tell me even if y'all were, would you?"

"Mom. Stop." You can feel your body go rigid with your voice. From his spot next to you, Kyle fixes you with scrunched eyebrows and pursed lips. Rolling your eyes, you lay back against the window and use the moments of silence to take deep breaths and focus on the blurs of trees. 

Suddenly she asks, "Are y'all at least coming down for 4th of July?" You can't be surprised by the subject change. It's one of her many defense mechanisms- diverting from something she doesn't want to talk about.

Despite your loathing this habit of hers, you play along. "You know we will. We're excited about it!"

"Good!"

You arrive back at your dorm, and already it has stopped feeling like home. The walls that you once considered cozy and quaint appear cramped and dull. Nevertheless, you unpack your things (omit the red lipstick that you never found) and help Ally lug her suitcase out of Jameson's SUV and into her room. With a sigh, you slump onto the futon. She follows suit. 

"I don't even know what me and Jameson are gonna do. Like I'm glad you and Kyle found a place, but..."

"I know. It'll be okay. Y'all will find a place, I just know it."

"Thanks, ____."

To lighten the mood, you say, "Well, my mom thinks I'm fucking Kyle."

That sends her snorting and falling back onto the couch with hysterical laughter. You know everything will work out fine.

"Jimmy, it's flipped sideways, get back!"

"I'm fine right here, Mandy, I'm-"

_BOOM!_

All you can do is watch as your Great Uncle Jimmy barely dodges a firework shooting past his leg. It wouldn't be an Independence Day without him nearly injuring (or succeeding to injure) himself. At this point, it's almost normal for there to be a stray firework or two. Your friends, however, couldn't be more shocked. Jameson's jumped out of his seat, and Ally's shaking. Kyle, on your left, is simply stifling awed laughter. Mandy, your great aunt, only shakes her head.

Your mother isn't amused either. "_____," she turns to you, "Do y'all wanna step in? I think Mandy's gonna kill Uncle Jimmy if those fireworks don't do it first."

After exchanging looks and nods with your friends, the four of you stand and walk into the field to help shoot fireworks. Your mom's brother, Michael, is waiting on you. He greets you by passing you four lighters.

"The red lighter's kind of a bitch to work. Hope y'all are comfortable with fire," he muses, setting the firework shells into the tubes.

Kyle snickers, "_____'s real comfortable with fire," and in that moment you want to light _him_ on fire. Because now you're thinking about _Grillby._ Nevertheless, you step up to one of the tubes, kneel onto the cool grass, and flip the lighter over in your hand a couple times. Jameson's next to you with a red lighter in between his fingers, silently struggling to flick it and start up the flame. He quietly sighs and runs a hand over his shaved head, wiping the sweat from his dark brow. 

"You need help?" you ask, arching an eyebrow, though your expression probably can't be seen in the night. 

"Nah," he mutters, "I got it."

Then Uncle Michael prompts, "Y'all ready?" As quick as you can, all five of you light the fuses on your fireworks and back away.

At least, that's what it looks like at first. 

The next few moments happen in a blur (you think?). First you see Jameson with his lighter (still in the field). You see the sparks following down the fuse (then the fuse is gone). Then there's a _boom_ (fireworks?) and a scream (Ally?), and a flash of pink before your eyes. Sparks are everywhere: in the air, on the grass, in the field, in the blur of your vision. You're dazed, swaying in the evening breeze for just a moment. You can hardly comprehend Kyle rushing past you, to where Ally's been since the boom, to the field. Michael follows, with the clinking sound of his belt making your ears ring just enough to set you on edge.

Here comes a thought. _Jameson. Fire. No. Fireworks._

A voice cries out. "Jameson!" It's yours, not that you meant to yell. "Jameson, are you okay?!" It's not just yours, it's Kyle's, too, joining Ally's in the darkened field. 

"Jameson!"

  



	14. From June to July, Part Three

  


As the night sky darkens, Grillby finds that most of his customers tonight are monsters. A few loner humans wander into the bar, and all seem to order hard drinks and spend their visits staring into space. Through the small windows the bartender can make out the bright, ethereal fireworks that never seem to stop soaring into the air.

"Human holidays are weird," Sans says from the barstool that his bones have glued to for the duration of the night. 

"Quite," Grillby says to him. He's been around a lot lately, Grillby's noticed. Not just around the bar, that's a given, but in general. The flame monster doesn't mind, though; in fact, since you've left, he's enjoyed the company. 

That isn't to say he doesn't think about you. He's admitted to only himself that you cross his mind quite frequently. When he puts on gloves to wash dishes, he thinks of your laughter. When he mixes a mojito, that pretty red top you wore is on his mind. When he slides his arms into his leather jacket, he tries to imagine the pictures you'd traced along his back. It's not simply _you_ , it's your quirks, too, that he finds endearing.

"Whatcha _bone-_ dering about? _____ again?" Sans is staring up at him again, the pits of his sockets _so_ black, the grin he wears _so_ shit-eating.

Grillby tries his hardest to keep his eyes on the glass he's cleaning and his face from turning blue. "No." It's something he's been getting better at, putting up this facade to protect himself from the skeleton's prodding and poking. He thinks he's fooled him when Sans starts snickering.

"For someone who witnesses a lot of gambling, you sure suck at a poker face."

Grillby sighs, "God _dammit_ , so what if I am? Why does it matter?"

Sans shrugs. "Your guess is as good as _mind_."

The bar's gone mostly quiet now, aside from the chatter of the gambling dogs and the exhausted rambling coming from a pair of bird-like creatures. One of the dogs strays over to the bar and orders another drink. 

"Salty Dog?" Grillby asks, receiving excited pants in response. He nods, beginning to mix the drink. First the grapefruit juice, pink in his silver cocktail shaker. Then the vodka, then the lemon juice. He mixes the concoction with ice, watching as the dog follows every flick and jerk of the shaker. The drink goes in a highball glass with a rim that sparkles with sea salt. Then he hands the customer their drink, and watches the dog lick the salt from the rim, destroying the artistic garnish of his creation. It's gone, leaving a trail of saliva in its place. Suddenly, he feels empty.

He tells Sans, "I need a moment outside. Would you mind watching the bar temporarily?"

"You'd get _salty_ if I said I wouldn't." Despite the wryness of his tone, Sans steps behind the bar, taking Grillby's place. With a gentle smile, the bartender steps out the door. _Only for a minute_ , he tells himself. _Just a minute to think and then I need to get back._

Outside, the July 4th festivities and fireworks are still carrying on. Over the city, there's a barely-audible chorus of "oohs" and "aahs." Propping a white-sleeved elbow against the brick wall of his bar, Grillby takes a breath and gazes at the fireworks. Even after five years, he's never understood the connection of fireworks to independence. Nevertheless, he can appreciate the aesthetic of them.

One firework catches his eyes, one with pops and crackles. It shoots up into the sky as a gold ray, then bursts into flares of orange, then red, then white, then blue. The night looks as if it's on fire in the most lovely way. _Fire. Lovely._

You... Could you think fire's lovely? Could you think _he's_ lovely? 

Another firework is shot immediately alongside the lingering golden one. It's blooming, almost like a flower, with glistening petals. The color astounds him: it's sparkling, but not overbearingly so, and striking....

And the same color as your eyes.

Grillby admits to himself that he just might be a little bit infatuated with you.

"Thanks for the drinks, Michael," Kyle says curtly. He sips at the rum-and-coke concoction your uncle's made, while you and Ally do the same. Uncle Michael sits across from you at the dining table with a leather-wrapped flask in his hand. You know that 1) he made the leather himself and 2) there's a 90% chance that there's whiskey in the flask. The other 10% is when he pours water in it just to fuck with everyone. As you stare at the melting ice in the drink, you try to recall the past hour.

Jameson's alive. Out cold, and most likely blind in one eye, but alive. He was hovering right above the firework with the shortest fuse, with the most temperamental lighter, when he sent sparks onto what he thought was just the ground. Now there's not one, but two fireworks that have shot out sideways tonight. Your friend is currently recuperating in one of the guest bedrooms here at your grandmother's. The ancient clock a few rooms over chimes twelve times, so loudly that the entire house can hear it. 

Michael clears his throat, turns to you. "Heard y'all got a place up in N'Orleans."

"Me and Kyle do," you reply. "We just finished making the rent payments for the first few months."

"Should've told me before."

"Why?" Kyle fixes him with scrunched eyebrows and pursed lips. 

"You know I live up around there, _____. A good hour from the quarter, but still in that general place. There's this house a couple streets down from me, it's been on sale for months. They keep marking the price down because it's...."

"It's...?" Ally starts. She's on the edge of her seat, eye fixed on Uncle Michael with a tone of scrutiny. 

Michael bites his lip. "Fixer-upper would be a damn understatement of that place." There's a pause here for a snort and a shrug. "Still, it's not a bad house. Got a couple bedrooms, a nice yard. Landlord's willin' to negotiate."

Ally asks, "They are?" and gets a nod in return. You and Kyle know what she's thinking when a smile spreads across her face. 

A feeling of peace washes over the room and the four of you. You take a huge sip of your drink, sighing in relief. That's one problem taken care of. And the drink... it's pretty decent. Light on the coke and heavy on the rum, it's garnished with a jagged lime wedge dropped into it. 

And obviously, it's not as good as it would've been if Grillby would've made it.

Your mother walks into the dining room next at that brisk pace she always goes at. There's a light smile on her face, and when you see it you know something's up. Her heels clack against the tile floor as she strides over to the kitchen and fishes through the refrigerator. With a bottle of water in hand, she turns to you and your friends. "Jameson's awake."

You, Ally, and Kyle nearly bust your asses running down the hallway. You know it's not a race to get to him, but nevertheless there's a sense of urgency.

Kyle's first into the room, shouting, "Jameson, are you blind?!"

There's a soft reply. "Only slightly. That's good, right?" You hold your gasp when you see that one of his eyes is glazed over. Jameson's propped up in the bed with a darkening purple bruise on his cheek and a bottle of water in his hand. Despite the circumstances, he's smiling at your group. "On a scale from one to ten, how much did I freak you out?"

You all speak at once.

You say, "Nine,"

Ally says, "Twelve,"

Kyle says, "Eight."

Jameson gives a light, tired laugh. "Good to know you guys care about me. Even if I won't be able to see you like I used to."

"No big deal," Kyle smirks, "you'll just have to miss out a bit when I become strikingly hot." That sends all four of you cackling, to the point where you're gripping the side of the bed for support.

When all goes still, Jameson turns to Ally. "I don't think I would've been this lucky if you weren't there to run in and help me. I know it was you, I saw you. How'd you get over there that fast?"

Ally blinks, her cheeks flushing. "Magic? I don't know, I just know I heard the boom, and I thought about how I needed you to be okay, and..." she trails off with a weak smile. 

Jameson's smile widens. "It looks like we need to stick together, then. If I've got the logic to keep you out of trouble, and you've got the magic to save me, and between us both we've only got two good eyes, then I don't think we'd do that great on our own!"

Your friends are laughing again, this time louder, and Ally's smile is as wide as it can go. Kyle's choking on his own laughter. Jameson's smirking with his own wittiness, and goddammit, he's alive. 

You don't think you could ever have friends better than these.

  
  



	15. From June to July, Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some NSFW in this chapter (spoiler: it's Grillby dick.)  
> Along with the NSFW, we have a jam this chapter, and it's "I Wanna Be Yours" by Arctic Monkeys.

Is it sad that all your belongings can fit into the back of a pickup truck? 

Today is moving day for you, and by extension, Kyle. You've spent the entirety of yesterday scouring campus for the cardboard boxes necessary for packing all your things. In all, there hadn't been many items to pack, much to your surprise. There's your clothes and assorted knickknacks, they're all boxed up and in the truck bed. Your mom was kind enough to let you take the old Queen-sized bed you slept in before college, as well as the matching dresser and desk. Other than that, the only furniture is your jewelry cabinet, if even that could be counted. Uncle Michael's already hauled that out. He's parked in the lot you used to have a pass to, outside the dorm you used to live in.

Used to. It stopped feeling like home when you returned from New Orleans, the place of your new house. However, you can't help but know you're going to miss your tiny dwelling. Now you step through the near-empty room with held breath. Slowly, you say your goodbyes to the university-owned furniture. Your shaky fingers graze the counter island you've made your coffee on, then the mattress that you've spent so many nights on, and finally the desk you've procrastinated all your studying on. 

The cream-colored walls have been stripped bare. They look empty, as if something's missing. Hell, something's missing from the entire room. _It's you._ Ally's things are still in her room (she isn't scheduled to move out for another week), and it still shows, with various pink and purple things scattered through the room. The cyclops is outside with your other friends, waiting on you. Your key is on the counter, a spare for her until she leaves. With your sneaker, you prop the door open. For a final time you turn to look at the dorm. 

"Bye," you whisper. The door clicks when it closes, and that's that. 

Uncle Michael is talking with Kyle's dad when you reach the parking lot. Originally, the plan was for your father to come help with the move instead, but when Michael called and told you he'd be passing through on his way home from a business trip, you couldn't say no. Considering your parents' messy divorce six years ago, you figured it'd be best if he and your father didn't cross paths. 

"Y'all ready?" Michael asks whilst fiddling with his keys. "It's a five-hour drive. Better make sure you got all your shit."

"Got it," you nod.

"What about you, Kyle?" Uncle Michael nudges your best friend, "Got all your shit?"

Kyle smirks, replying, "All shit is present and accounted for."

"And we all have the address?" You ask. You and Kyle will be taking your car to the house, while your family members will be taking their respective vehicles. Estimating time for traffic, Kyle's concluded that you should be there by 3 in the afternoon.

"137 Carriage Way?" His dad asks, and you nod. He double-checks, "And everything's taken care of? With paperwork and money and all that?" 

Kyle starts, "Uhhh, about that paperwork-"

But you finish, "I did yours, too, dork."

"_____'s on top of things," Kyle's father remarks, "Why can't you do that?" It's no surprise to you that he's said that; ever since the two of you were little, Kyle's dad has mistaken Kyle's forgetfulness and depression for straight-up apathy. You know it bothers Kyle, but you've always felt too meek to speak up for it, and so has he. Trying to get him out of the situation, you unlock your car. Any carry-ons or fragile things have gone in your trunk. Likewise, both of you have packed suitcases with clothes for easy access while you're still unpacking things. 

Before getting into the car, the two of you turn to Jameson and Ally. Since the firework incident nearly a month ago, the two have been referring to themselves as the "No Depth Perception Duo." After several visits to the optometrist, Jameson has learned he will permanently be blind in his right eye. His reaction was to acquire an eyepatch and ask to be called Nick Fury whenever he wears it. God, you're gonna miss them both.

Your voice is a whisper. "You guys gonna be okay?"

"Indubitably," Jameson chirps. "I've already found a couple places that'll take me and Ally both. And Michael's gonna help us get moved into the house, since we'll be pretty much neighbors and all."

Then Ally sighs, "We'll miss you guys," and your heart sinks. Something impulsive in you is triggered, and you pull her close to you. Jameson comes in next, and Kyle finishes the group hug. 

"Let's keep up the group chat," Kyle murmurs into your shoulder. "And get together on breaks."

"Deal," says Jameson, giving you all a squeeze. 

You start to pull away, but before you do, Ally whispers to you, "You better text me. I want every detail of what goes on with you and _Grill-bae_." 

"Of course, girl." With a smile, you pull back. There's a final chorus of goodbyes, and then you and Kyle get in the car. 

"Grillby, could you please pass the glitter?" Papyrus's naturally loud voice echoes across the table. Grillby's hand darts to the center of the table to locate the shaker of glitter. 

"Do you want the gold or the rainbow glitter?" Since becoming friends with Sans and his brother, the bartender's become accustomed to the younger skeleton's odd food palette. It used to bother him, the way Papyrus would burn pasta and coat it in craft supplies. How could it not; his profession is _food_ , for Christ's sake! Lately, though, he's been doing better at overlooking it, especially considering that he goes to the skeleton brothers' house every few days for brunch now. It was originally arranged by Papyrus after Sans began frequenting the bar too often, and Grillby never had a problem with spending spare time. 

At least now he can at least help cook the meals he shares with them so they're halfway decent. He even found a recipe for edible glitter on this incredibly nifty crafting site. This same website showed him how to package the glitter for regular use and display. He now has an account, simply because it's so damn _useful_!

Papyrus remarks, "Both!" And Grillby slides the glitter over the mahogany table with a chuckle. The bartender digs his fork into his quiche and takes a large bite, savoring the whole thing. The bacon crunches, and the cheese melts into the onions, and the crust is so _buttery_ , and-

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

And his phone is ringing. What follows next is a frantic attempt by Grillby to swallow his food and compose himself fast enough to answer. As he's swallowing, he notices the caller is unknown, with an odd area code. With a wave of his fiery fingers, he excuses himself from the table. He picks up the phone and he clears his throat.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other line is soft, feminine. "Grillby?" Sweet merciful Jesus, it's you. If he still had food in his mouth he would've choked.

Quickly recovering from the shock, he breathes, "_____, how are you?" An involuntary smile works its way onto his face. As he stands in the doorway of Sans's kitchen, the skeleton fixes him with wide eyes and a slick smile upon hearing your name.

"I'm pretty good," you say, "What about you?"

"Just peachy," Grillby sighs. Sans waves at him, so he says, "I'm actually at brunch with Sans and his brother. He says hello."

"Hi, Sans!" you chirp, then exclaim, "Oh shit, am I bothering you?"

"No, _____, not at all. I was pleasantly surprised by your call, though." He leans back against the doorway, posture eased. The flames atop his head relax themselves, simmering down to short sparks that he runs his fingers through as he talks.

"Oh! Well, um," there's a pause as you stammer. He thinks it's cute. "You said to call when I was coming back? And well, I'm sort of on my way over there right now?"

 _Right now?!_ Grillby's legs give way underneath him and he nearly stumbles. His body shakes and his soul almost mistakes the panic for a confrontation. _Right now, right this minute?!_ Papyrus leaps up from the table to steady him with a bony hand on his shoulder. Holding in a justified gasp, Grillby tries his hardest to sound calm for you. "Right now?" 

"Yeah, I didn't know how soon to call, and since like three days ago I've been getting all my stuff together and getting ready to actually go. I'm sorry it's so last-minute and-"

"No, no, no, there's no need to be sorry, dear." For you, the word 'dear' slips from his mouth so easily and quickly, he doesn't stop to think about it. He hopes with all his soul that you don't have a problem with it. "Would you like me to help move your things in? And how long do you have until you arrive?"

"Oh wow, that's really sweet of you! You don't have to; I mean, there's already me, Kyle, and two other guys coming to help, so it's not necessary. But I think I should be there at 3?"

"Then I'll be over at 3. I'm looking forward to it." When Grillby hangs up, he's met with not one curiously eager grin, but two. 

Thankfully, Sans and Papyrus are the empathetic type. When Grillby explains the call to them, Sans immediately suggests that he should leave so he could get ready for your arrival. Papyrus seconds this, promising him to "fully educate him on the proper dating process" later on. After weighing things out and looking at himself in the mirror, the bartender agrees. With apologies and promises to pick up on brunch again soon, Grillby takes a rain check, grabs his coat, and leaves.

On the way home, Grillby gives the speedometer on his motorcycle a run for its money. The silver watch on his amber wrist shows that it is 1:03. _Less than two hours to get ready_ , he muses to himself. _Perhaps he can look halfway presentable in that time._ Black dress shoes tap against the stairs as he walks up to his room, and then to his bathroom. First, a shower. 

For obvious reasons, Grillby's showers don't involve water; rather, they're scientifically modified procedures that accomplish the exact same thing. Before starting, he turns the radio on. It quickly comes to life with some pop-alt song he doesn't mind.

_"I wanna be your vacuum cleaner_

_Breathing in your dust_

_I wanna be your Ford Cortina_

_I will never rust..."_

First, the bartender grabs a large glass jar from his cabinet. He steps in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in his room, eyeing himself up and down with critique. _God, is he in rough shape!_ This needs to be fixed immediately. Without further hesitation, Grillby strips his clothes off. The white button-down shirt goes first, into the laundry hamper on the other side of the room. The jeans go next. Finally he slides his black boxer briefs down his legs, and they top the pile of dirty clothes. He opens the jar and takes out a palmful of a lotion-like substance. He works it in his hands, then gently, he massages the back of his neck, feeling the spots with the most stress. He likes to go slow, and take his time showering. The result's better, he's found. His fiery hands travel down his back to his broad, defined shoulders. The thin layer of lotion on his back is cold, refreshing. 

_"...And let me be the portable heater_

_That you'll get cold without_

_I wanna be your setting lotion_

_Hold your hair in deep devotion..."_

Grillby backs himself against the wall as his hands slide over the planes of his chest, enjoying himself thoroughly. He rubs across his pectorals and down the lean muscle of his stomach. He sighs, _fuck_ he needed this badly. Briefly his fingers graze his angular hipbones, and then he needs more of his shower-in-a-bottle. The bartender scoops more of the lotion into his fingers, and spreads a large amount of the stuff onto his thighs. He props one leg on the counter, spreading the lotion over his knees, then his calves. The process is repeated on the other leg, leaving him feeling nearly completely rejuvenated. Now, however, he needs to take care of something else.

_"...Wanna be yours_

_I wanna be yours..."_

With slow, tender touches he takes hold of his cock. It's arguably the hottest part of his body, and all the more sensitive. There's a small amount of lotion on his hand as Grillby starts pumping up and down, covering it all. It feels so cold, and it's absolutely electrifying. The feeling makes him breathe out a long, low sigh that ends like a groan, with his back arching against the bathroom wall. A few moments more, and he lets out a fully-fledged moan. 

"Oh, _fuck_..."

_"...I wanna be yours_

_I wanna be yours_

_Wanna be yours_

_Wanna be yours..."_

The song on the radio ends, and with that Grillby decides that he should finish getting ready. He pats the rest of himself down with the lotion, allows it to dry, and then goes to dress. 

In his charcoal-painted room, he bends to pick a pair of grey briefs from the dresser drawer. There's a black button-down hanging in the closet, and a crisp, skinny pair of jeans. Beside his bed sits a bottle of cologne. He applies it conservatively, wondering if you'll care if he uses it. Or if you'll like it, even. 

Grillby takes his time to put finishing touches on his appearance. After all, he has forty whole minutes before you're estimated to arrive. He puts his watch back on, and his glasses as well. Downstairs, there is a bowl of candy mints, and he takes two after his anxiety medication. Considering his teeth are only functional when he desires them to be, brushing them isn't an option. He makes sure his collar is down as well. 

At 2:56, he hears the outside sound of vehicles stopping and doors closing. Hands shaking, Grillby rises from his spot on the couch and walks to the door. Who else is helping you unpack? He knows Kyle, one of your friends, is there. But what other two people are with you? Are they speciest? He takes deep breaths, trying desperately to calm down. There shouldn't be anything to worry about, he rationalizes. He's going to go over there and help you unpack. He's going to see you. That last thought is the one that truly motivates him to open the door and walk out.

Three vehicles are parked by your new home, and the iron gate is propped open with a rock. Someone is carrying a dining table over the porch steps, and when they turn, Grillby notices who it is.

Kyle calls, "What's up, Grillby?!" He flat-out drops the dining table onto the porch, and it lands with a loud _CRACK!_ "I was in the car with _____, so I heard the phone call and all. Come on over, we just started moving stuff!" 

Obliging, Grillby walks down his driveway and over to yours. He meets Kyle at the porch steps and gives him a firm handshake. 

Suddenly, there's a yell from the foyer of your house. "What the flying fuck was that?!" A man in his 30's steps out onto the porch. He's dark-haired, lanky, and dressed in all black. From his viewpoint Grillby can make out the tattoo of a spider on the man's left arm. He addresses Kyle first, saying, "Pick that up before your dad comes out here and whips your ass." Then he turns to Grillby, a sardonic grin on his face. He offers a hand and says, "Hey, I'm guessing you're a neighbor?"

"Yes," the bartender shakes his hand, and just nearly introduces himself, if it isn't for the yelp that comes from inside the house.

 _"Grillby!_

Before he can process it, there you are, rushing down the stairs, through the foyer, and out the open door. You wrap your arms around him in a hug he doesn't expect, but accepts wholeheartedly. When you pull back, you have the biggest, prettiest smile on your face. "It's so nice to see you! I'm so happy to be here again!" You're quite relaxed-looking, with sweatpants and a black band tee, a contrast to what he's used to seeing on you. 

But god, has he missed you.

  



	16. From Greeting to Sangria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs in this chapter are "Folsom Prison Blues" by Johnny Cash and "Fat Bottomed Girls" by Queen.

  


Just as the sun sets every day, every task that is begun must be finished. And when the sky above you turns from light blue to yellow to red to purple to black, all your belongings are in your new home. Most of the day wasn't spent on moving the furniture in, so much as arranging it all. You thought Uncle Michael was going to flip his shit when Kyle changed his mind about using the master bedroom after all his things were already in there. Moving a bed is nowhere as easy as it seems, even if it doesn't seem easy at all. On the upside, _you_ now have the master bedroom and bathroom to yourself, which means you get the enormous bathtub as well. Your desk chair is in the study, your thrifted couch is in the living room... You couldn't be more thrilled. 

Actually, you could. If only your new bedroom weren't that hideous shade of orange. Guess that'll have to be painted. Currently, though, you sit at the dining table with Kyle, his dad, and Michael. Much to your disappointment, Grillby had to leave two hours earlier to work. It felt odd, having him leave so quickly after seeing him. When he _was_ here, he lit up your dining room, both figuratively and literally. You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss him now, with his sparking smile and bright conversation.

As the men sit making a shopping list for your new kitchen (because _yay_ , you actually have a kitchen now) you idly hook and unhook your foot from the leg of your chair. You're half-listening, your mind elsewhere, somewhere with friendly fire and decent wall paint. 

_Buzz._

At the feeling of your phone you jump in your seat, attracting three pairs of eyes. While you're fumbling with the device, Kyle catches a glimpse of the notification. 

He remarks, "'Kiddo?' _____, why is someone calling you a kid?" As you flip your phone over to look at the message, Kyle goes on. "Do you like being called a kid, _____? Are you into that, _____?" His dad looks utterly appalled by the interrogation, with his eyebrows scrunched together and his lips twisted. Michael's snickering. Kyle carries on, chiming, "_____'s got a daddy kink, _____'s got a-"

Your head snaps up and you yell, "Shut up, you furry!"

Now it's his turn to go red and your turn to actually read.

_Unknown: hey kiddo_

_Buzz. Buzz._

_Unknown: got ur # from *fire emoji*_

_Unknown: he wants ya 2 come down but hes scared of buggin ya n gettin ya all hotheaded_

______: Sans?_

_Buzz._

_Unknown: way 2 go sherlock_

Chuckling, you program the number into your contacts. 

Michael breaks the silence and asks, "So. Who're you getting freaky with, _____?"

"It's not like that!" you retort. To Kyle you explain, "It's Sans."

"You and Sans got something going on?" Kyle arches an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were tryna get _Grillby_ all _hot and bothered_." 

You can only groan in response. 

"Wait," Michael's stopping you mid-groan. "The guy that came by here earlier today? The fire monster? You and _him_?"

Kyle's father asks, "How well do you know each other, _____? I think it seems a little soon to..."

You end up trying to tune them all out, but to no avail. All three voices barge into the solace of your head fairly quickly, loud and imposing and loud and disruptive and intrusive and _did you fucking mention LOUD_ and-

"Stop!" You yell, and the three go silent. Once things are quiet, you calmly explain, "No, I do not have a thing with Sans. Grillby and I... I might be attracted to him, but I doubt he feels the same way, and even if he does, it's just too _soon_ to do anything about it." You pause here to accept the understanding nods that they're offering. "So if y'all could chill, and not mention this around him _at all_. That'd be great." 

The two older men nod in agreement. Kyle grins and says, "Sure, of course, _____. Wouldn't dream of it." 

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you ask them, "Hey, do y'all smell something?" In accordance they all take a sniff, shaking their heads and grimacing. "That's strange," you go on, "I could've sworn I caught a strong whiff of _Kyle's bullshit_!" You shoot your friend a pointed look, cracking a smirk as everyone except him laughs. 

You ask them about going out for drinks, per Sans's suggestion. Michael's up and tying his boots before you can even finish the question. It's understandable; you're all tired and in need of more relaxation, especially Kyle's dad, who has to drive back home and to work early in the morning. As you file out the white front door of your new home, Kyle grabs the shopping list, saying something about two birds and one stone. 

The drive to Grillby's is spent fighting over the AUX cord. Kyle insists on playing some obscure pop that sounds suspiciously like nightcore. Michael quickly dubs his selection to be "complete weak shit" and officially bans him from using the cord until they part ways. While he's driving, your uncle passes Kyle's father the cord out of courtesy. The moment he plugs his phone in is the moment you remember he listens to (Oh Lord) country music. And you forgot your headphones. Fuck.

_"When I was just a baby_

_My mama told me, 'Son,_

_Always be a good boy,_

_Don't ever play with-"_

The car stops in the parking lot near Grillby's, and you and Kyle rocket out of the backseat. You take your purse in hand, shutting the truck door behind you.

Upon seeing the neon sign across the street, Michael pipes up. "Grillby's? He's got his own bar?" When you nod he says, "Think he's a keeper, _____. If you ain't freaky with him yet then you might wanna start getting to it. Free drinks."

"Shut up," And though your teeth grit, your elbow digs into his side playfully. With a smile, you lead the way into the bar. The warmth of the place hits you instantly, delivering a light, fluttering feeling to your stomach. Or maybe that's just the bartender.

He hasn't seen you yet, so you take the opportunity to observe him. Grillby's in his element, as usual, mixing margaritas for two monsters sitting together. One's an alligator and the other's a cat, and they both sit transfixed by him. He muddles the limes with flawless, strong arms, then mixes the tequila in. Two glasses are rimmed with sugar, poured perfectly evenly, and served. The girls clap in awe while your group sits down near them. 

He must see your face through the glass he's cleaning, because his flames crackle upward. "Well, hello there." His voice is low, lower than the gutter your mind drops itself into for a split second. And you almost forget why you're here, but then the door to the restroom opens and closes, and Sans sidles the seat next to you.

"If it isn't _____ and Kyle!" The skeleton gives both of you a grin that's somehow wider than his typical expression. "Guess you're _back_ bone for good, huh?"

"Definitely!" Laughing, you rope Sans into a side-hug, which he accepts after a moment of initial shock. You missed him and his shitty puns. Introductions are exchanged between him and the people you came here with while everyone simultaneously scans the drink menu. Your indecisiveness is mistaken for courteousness, and everyone else orders before you. 

"Something light," Kyle's dad chimes, "I've gotta get back on the road soon and can't be too out of it."

Michael nods, "Amen to that. Beer?" 

"Beer."

Kyle decides on something with gin, and Sans takes his usual. You're appalled at the sight of so many tomato products in a single glass. When the skeleton gets his drink he hops off his barstool in favor of flirting with the jukebox.

Finally, Grillby leans into you from across the bar. "And what piques _your_ interest tonight?" His glasses slide to the bridge of his nose, calling attention to the gentle whites of his eyes. To any bystander, he might look too close for comfort; nevertheless, you're at ease. He really is lovely-looking, beautiful in his own way. Your face is heating up now, and not simply from the close proximity to the fire.

Your smile stays steady. You make your choice. "Well, the Red Berry Sangria sounds pretty." 

With a nod, he gets to work on your drink. You busy yourself with tapping along to the song Sans has selected. 

_"I was just a skinny lad_

_Never knew no good from bad_

_But I knew love_

_Before I left my nursery..."_

The skeleton's reappeared next to you, and he sips idly at the ketchup concoction. He offers you a sip. With a shudder, you decline, in favor of salivating over what Grillby's making you. He's using wine, and brandy, and fruit so fresh it looks as if it's just been picked. You're drawn to his rapid, skillful movements, his precision, his passion. Him. The glass is garnished with a ripe strawberry and placed in front of you. 

"You're right," the bartender says with a smirk that's dangerously close to you, "it _is_ pretty, but not nearly as pretty as you." 

_"Oh, won't you take me home tonight_

_Oh, down beside your red fire light_

_Oh, and you give it all you got..."_

It's good to be home.

  



	17. From Hangover to Head

  


You wake gradually, with your breath steadying itself in linen sheets. In mere moments your eyes are steadied on orange walls. _Your_ orange walls, of _your_ new room. The easing of your stomach isn’t quite familiarity, but instead some form of comfort and newness that you welcome. Sleep’s collected in the corners of your eyes. It’s not till you’re wiping it away that you realize something’s amiss. How did you get in here?

And what happened last night?

When you find a note on your bedside table, a distant sense of déjà vu crosses your mind. However, the writing on this one belongs to Kyle instead of Sans.

______,_   
_Taking job applications out for the both of us. You shouldn’t be too hungover, but if you feel shitty then get some of that cookie cereal in the pantry. Drunk you seemed to want them a lot. Along with a bunch of other stuff. I’m not good at impulse control. Sorry._

You piece things together slowly, taking your time to process the note’s implications. Kyle’s out job-hunting for the both of you and there’s cereal in the pantry. You went to the store last night?

You went to the store last night, drunk? _You got drunk at Grillby’s?_ Your head hurts. Fucking hell.

Sure enough, the pantry downstairs is fully-stocked, and you pour tiny cookies into a bowl while simultaneously wracking your brain for any memories of last night. You remember the sangria (sangrias) and then the music (it started with Queen and went downhill from there) and then Grillby (how could you forget him?) and then another drink, something with tequila in it (why tequila, why oh why, you stupid idiot) and then Michael and Kyle’s dad leaving, and then…

You’re still missing quite a bit of your evening. Nevertheless, you trudge on, finishing your cereal and opting for a shower. You imagine that as the day goes on, you’ll either remember more, or Kyle will tell you more. The water cascades over your shoulders and down your back with the perfect pressure. Ahh, the gentle intimacy of using a new shower for the first time. You’re enjoying yourself immensely when you realize you can’t find your razor. You could’ve sworn you unpacked it, and yet it’s not here, nor is it on the counter. In the steaming shower you bend to find your legs with more stubble than you’d like. With a sigh, you push the stainless handle until the once-constant flow trickles down to a drip from the shower head. The first towel you can find has a stain on it that’s never quite come out in the wash, but you digress. You’ve got the towel wrapped above your bust and are opening the bathroom door when you hear the doorbell ring. 

Did Kyle forget his key on his way out? You chalk it up to that; after all, you were always better at remembering things. Oh, the irony there; you can’t even remember the night before! Making sure your towel’s snug around you, you hurry down the stairs and eagerly fling the wooden front door open.

“Where all have you been? Get _in_ here already!”

However, it’s not Kyle you’re greeting. And your towel’s looser than you thought.

“Get _in_ here already!” 

Grillby isn’t sure what he expected to see upon making a delivery to your house, but it certainly wasn’t this. One of his flaming hands holds a saran-wrapped package and the other flies up to his mouth at the sight. You’re wrapped in an ivory towel, and your hair clings to the sides of your lovely face. It’s wet- you’re wet, all over. And though he hopes his expression doesn’t convey it, he wants to be too, with you. That’s nothing new. Grillby won’t lie to himself and pretend he hasn’t imagined you in some compromising state with him before. But those were fleeting thoughts, and _this_ , with you _right here with him_? Oh, this is different, so farfetched that he’s half convinced he’s in a dream. And you’re telling him to get in the house already. In this bittersweet moment the bartender is torn between the fantasy of coming in, and following the wet shimmers down your neck with his mouth, and the sick reality that water hurts him, and that this isn’t some dollar-bin romance novel.

Suddenly, he’s aware that he’s staring. You are, too, and it occurs to Grillby that perhaps you weren’t expecting him. 

“Um,” he manages to cough out, “good morning, _____. I’m not… interrupting anything, am I?” 

“Oh, no!” You snap, face flushing, “I was just showering, and then the door rang, and then Kyle’s out so I thought you were him so I thought it’d be okay to just open the thing like this, and that’s why I said 'get in here,’ not like I want you inside with me like this, but I mean, you can come in if you want, also I lost my razor, and…” Here you trail off, still mouthing incoherencies but not making any noise. Your left hand moves to tug your towel up higher, over the spot of droplet-covered cleavage that’s begun to show. “I’m sorry!"

“No need for apologies,” he breathes, “I only meant to bring you this. I imagined you’d need it after last night.” With that, he hands you the package and hopes it’s enough to recover from the moments prior. With held breath he watches you untie the ribbon, open the wrapping, and pull each item out, one by one. There’s a water bottle, a package of peanut butter crackers, a box of tic-tacs, painkillers, and a small bag of coffee.

“Is this… a hangover kit?” When you look up at him, there’s an amused grin on your face. 

“Perhaps,” Grillby replies, propping himself up on the door frame. “Is that alright?”

“It’s perfect.” You compile the items into the package again for easy carrying, and you look happy for a moment, but then your expression contorts into one of shock. “Wait,” you snap, “what all did I do last night?!”

Ah, you don’t remember. If you didn’t look so troubled, it’d be adorable. Yes, there is indeed concern on your face, and Grillby has a dire need to alleviate it. “I can tell you every detail if you’d like.” But first, something else needs to be tended to first. “However, I’d prefer if you got on something more comfortable first. I doubt you just let everyone you know see you in a bath towel.”

“No, just you,” you say with a grin, “you’re special and I intend on wearing this towel every single time I see you.” Both of you are laughing, but a nagging thought in Grillby’s head wishes you were serious. You invite him into your cooled house and shut the door. When you sashay up the staircase in that damned towel, he doesn’t follow. Amidst the silence he finds the couch and his thoughts. _What is with him today?_ How did a simple trip to give you a hangover remedy turn into such an intense fantasy? How do you always manage to make him so flustered, or light-headed, or _hard_? He just nearly lost his mind outside your door just now. Part of him wants only for your comfort, for you in your sweatpants and sweet nature, but the other part… He can’t think about that. Grillby shakes his head, running a hand through the fiery tips of his hair. He can’t think about you in that towel, or the water drops running down your cleavage, or the wide-eyed shock he wants to put on your face again. 

God dammit, his brain’s in the gutter again, and he needs to compose himself before you come back downstairs. He takes a few deep breaths and opens the top two buttons on his shirt for an attempt at more air. His legs uncross themselves, almost automatically going into a more comfortable spread on the couch. Perhaps, if he’s less wound-up, he can achieve a better state of mind.

And that’s how Kyle finds him when he walks through the front door only moments later: Legs spread, shirt partially undone, and eyes closed on the sofa.

  



	18. From Context to Blush

  


"Uhhhhhhhhhh..." Kyle freezes in the doorway. “Should I go back outside?"

You're on your way down the stairs, saying, “Why? Come join us!” 

You watch your roommate's face go red as he looks between you and Grillby, who you can't quite see. You know he's on the couch, though, and as you reach the bottom of the stairs you ponder Kyle’s nervous tone. His eyes graze over your wet hair and flushed face, then down to your fresh clothes. When you turn you see Grillby and- Oh. _Oh. He’s hot._ Involuntarily, your eyes widen.

Kyle sighs, “I really hope I’m taking this out of context.”

“Yep,” you say. “You definitely are.”

Grillby, with a pale blue face, says nothing. As an awkward silence makes itself at home, you and your friend each take couch spots on either side of him. The three of you spend seconds, almost minutes, staring ahead of you, trying not to make any uncomfortable eye contact. On your left, Grillby shifts, his elbow bumping yours. In your mind you know that Kyle won’t say anything to break the silence, and some gut feeling within you says that Grillby won’t either. And he’s in _here_ , in _your home_ , for a reason.

“So,” before you know it, you’re clearing your throat, “what happened last night?”

Kyle stifles laughter. “You wanna start, Grillbz?”

The fire monster’s voice comes out huskier than normal. “I suppose.” He shoots you a quick, playful glance, making a “tsk” noise. “It started out when you switched from your Sangrias to a Bonsai Margarita. Just one glass has three ounces of assorted alcohols, _____. And I have a feeling tequila isn’t your strong suit. It’s not a lot of people’s.”

“Okay, I figured it started with tequila,” you reply.

Grillby continues, “You had two and a half of those before Kyle realized how much you’d had and made you stop. But he was a bit tipsy as well, and the two of you didn’t have a vehicle anyway. I allowed Sans to teleport the two of you home, opting to check up on you after work.” As you take it in, the bartender turns to Kyle. “Care to take it from here?”

“Alright, so it’s about 3 a.m. when Grillby gets back here. It’s been an hour or so since we’ve been at home. I've sobered up, mostly, but you? You’re still slap-ass drunk on the couch. And the worst part is, you won’t stop whining about groceries. _'Groceries, we gotta go get groceries, we said we would but we haven’t and I’m hungry so let’s go get groceries.'_ Yeah, that’s exactly what you said. Well, I’m gonna go by myself because I can’t watch you _and_ shop at the same time, but I can’t leave you here by yourself either. And Grillby doesn’t wanna stay and babysit, but that,” Here, Kyle drops his voice in an imitation of Grillby, "‘simply isn’t appropriate, by any means, for him to be alone in the house with you like this.’”

Grillby butts in, “I do _not_ sound like that.”

“Whatever, you get the point. Anyway, so me and Grillby get you in the car and we go to the store at 3 a.m. And that’s when things get interesting. Drunk you knows we need groceries, but doesn’t know _which_ groceries. So, rationally, you think we need everything.”

“Rationally,” you snort.

“Though I must admit,” Grillby chimes in, blushing, “you’re an adorable drunk. And I’ve seen my share of them. You just piled that cart higher and higher. It was so cute, how you kept going for the sweets.”

“Cute until the cashier gave us the total,” Kyle finishes. “_____, have you looked in the freezer?”

“Why?” With a curious squick of your eyebrows, you stand, walking into the kitchen. 

In the living room, Kyle and Grillby stay seated. The two men fix each other with amused, anticipated grins.

Sure enough, your voice calls into the room. “Guys? Why did you let me buy all this fancy sorbet?”

“It’s simple,” Grillby replies, “You grabbed all those tubs and refused to put any back. When we asked you started to cry, because apparently, you needed the sorbet to know you loved all the flavors equally."

From the spot next to him, Kyle groans, “They were seven dollars each…” 

After doing a quick count of all the sorbet tubs, you mutter an “oh my god” and trudge back into the living room. 

“Is that all?” You ask. “I had a shit-ton of tequila and bought a bunch of sugar?”

“Ummm.” Dropping his volume, Kyle scoots closer to Grillby. “Should we tell her about Lowe’s?”

For a moment the bartender utters only short, noncommittal crackles. He gazes into your eyes, gauging you, pondering. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Should I bring out the-“

“Yes.”

At Grillby’s blunt insistence, Kyle leaves the room, wandering into the next. It’s where you’ve put most of your office-like furniture, as well as any junk you haven’t sorted through. If you hold your breath you can hear him rifling through assorted objects. Meanwhile, you and Grillby are left together. Absentmindedly, you reach for the neatly-packaged hangover kit and pop a tic-tac into your mouth. You offer him one, and he declines.

You start, “Are you-“

“Alright?” He finishes. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Yes, I’m fine, I was simply worried about you. We all had quite a night last night.”

“You were the one who had to stay up making sure I didn’t get into trouble…”

“I don’t mind.” He meets your gaze and gives you a warm smile. “In fact, I enjoyed it. It’s not every day I get to go grocery shopping with someone as exciting as you.”

“Oh! Thank you!” You’re flushing on the couch, with a hand flying up to your face to cover it.

“Hold on there.” Gently, hesitantly, Grillby reaches for you. His flaming hand interlocks with yours, and he pulls it away from your face. “No need to cover up such a beautiful face."

 _Beautiful?_ You’re blushing even more from the words and his touch when Kyle re-enters the room and drops a literal pile of paint swatches onto the coffee table.

  



	19. From Swatches to Splatters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is "From Eden" by Hozier!!

  


You never thought there'd be a day when you had _two_ boys in your bedroom, _at the same time_ , yet here you are. But it's not like that. They're just here for the furniture. 

"So we need something that works well with gray," Grillby muses, flames flickering as leans against the wall. Your wall. Your orange wall. Fuck, it's just so hideous. Seriously, did a rotten pumpkin explode in here or something? This has to be fixed _today_. 

"Black?" Kyle suggests. 

Grillby looks to you for your answer.

"Maybe. It just seems kind of monochromatic," you reply. "I was kind of hoping for some color this time." You were never allowed to do too much in terms of decoration in your college dorm, and in your teen years your room had been comprised of grayscale. While you liked it, and while you can still appreciate it, the concept seems a bit dismal after all this time.

"In that case, I think red gives a nice contrast." Grillby takes a crimson paint swatch, pressing it to various places on the wall as he talks. "It's sophisticated, but it isn't rigid. It's warm," Here, he places the swatch right above your bed, with one hand on the headboard, "and in my opinion, sensual, too." Something about that makes your cheeks burn. Is it his use of the word _sensual_ or the fact that Grillby's practically on your bed? 

"Maybe," you try to brush it off, "it just seems _really intense_.” He’s intense.

"You don't have to do just one color," Kyle remarks. “There’s this thing my mom likes to do when she paints- it’s called like an accent wall?”

“I’ve done that before,” Grillby nods. “So all we need to do is find two colors that look good together _and_ with the furniture.”

You’ve taken a few art classes before. That shouldn’t be too hard. You find yourself sitting in the pile of paint swatches on the floor, looking for just the right amount of contrast. The pieces of cardstock cover your knees and lap as you search. Wow, Drunk You wasn’t kidding in Lowe’s last night. You’re inclined to believe that you took just about every swatch in the store. Fortunately, though, you like most of these colors. Easy. 

“Hold on, what about that one?” Grillby’s suddenly kneeling in front of you. His warmth reaches your body in gentle waves.

“Which one? I’ve got like, fifty down here.” 

“This one,” With held breath and careful hands, his hand sweeps over your thigh, pulling a single card up. _Oh, that did not just make you that wet._ The swatch he’s pulled is a shade of stormy blue that, by itself, is demurely pretty. When it’s held against his fingers, however, against his burning, sparking skin… it’s beautiful.

“I think I’ve got an idea,” you whisper.

The ride to Lowe’s is fairly quick. Kyle drives his car while you lounge in the passenger seat, chatting all the while.

“We should all have lunch together after we do this painting thing,” Kyle suggests.

“You two could come over to my house. I love to cook.”

You turn to face Grillby, who leans back in the seat behind you. Your voice is thick with feigned shock and laced with sarcasm. “You, the restaurant owner, love to cook? No way!”

The bartender narrows his eyes, scoffing playfully at you. _That’s a cute scoff. Fuck._

Kyle exclaims, “Friend lunch!”

“Okay, okay,” you agree, “but I’m bringing over sorbet. We’ve gotta eat some of that shit.”

When the three of you walk into the home improvement store, you make a beeline for the paint section. The paint is organized by brand, and then by color. Just looking at it all makes you absolutely fucking giddy. It’s so neat, so aesthetically pleasing, so tranquil. It’s no wonder you lost yourself in here last night. You’re _excited_.

You hear Grillby murmur to Kyle, “She’s got that look in her eyes again. Do we need to grab and restrain her?”

“Not unless you want to,” your best friend says back. 

Why do they keep talking like you aren’t here? Losers. You cast both of them a look and then head to grab your colors. Now that you know you want them, they stand out in the seemingly-endless sea of shades. Just as you imagined, they’re perfect together.

“Veranda Blue and… Golden Haze?” Kyle asks when you show him the colors.

“How _bold_ ,” Grillby remarks. “And they’d look stunning with the gray, and with you- your furniture!” At the end he stammers, and Kyle cuts him a look you can’t decipher. All you can do is shrug and take your paint to the counter. Kyle remembers to get a roll of painter’s tape and a few brushes.

“That’ll be $44.96,” the cashier tells you. As he prints your receipt, he looks up at you with sudden alarm. “Hey, weren’t you here last night?”

“Nope,” you say. You grab your bag and head for the door with Kyle and Grillby in anxious tow.

“Is everything taped?” You look up from your spot on the ground. Everything looks to be properly covered and taped, from the walls to your bed, which has been dragged into the middle of the room. You’re about to pop the top on the blue paint when Kyle walks into your bedroom, hauling a speaker. 

“Won’t that just be another thing to try not to drip paint on?” You ask with an eyebrow cocked.

“But _____, what about the jams?” He’s almost pouting, unlocked phone in hand. Why is he like this? Can’t he just play it straight from his phone? You _really_ don’t want paint on anything.

But before you can even open your mouth, Grillby’s saying, “Good thinking, Kyle,” and you’re being handed the cord to plug in. Paint’s gonna get on that fucking outlet block, you’re calling it right now. And it’s not like you can cover the _speaker_ , it won’t play properly. When did they start conspiring against you? Boys. Kyle turns on the music, and you open both cans of paint.

_"Babe, there’s something tragic about you_

_Something so magic about you_

_Don’t you agree?_

_Babe, there’s something lonesome about you_

_Something so wholesome about you_

_Get closer to me…"_

With lathered brushes, you each get to work. You’re only painting the longest wall blue, so you opt to take care of that yourself while the men paint the rest of the room yellow. When the brush first swipes over the wall, you smile. Things are looking a little less orange. 

_"Honey, you’re familiar_

_Like my mirror years ago_

_Idealism sits in prison_

_Chivalry fell on its sword_

_Innocence died screaming_

_Honey ask me, I should know_

_I slithered here from Eden_

_Just to sit outside your door…"_

You’re beginning to enjoy yourself when you feel something wet hit your arm. _Oh god, it fucking can’t be…_ Sure enough, there’s a stripe of yellow running down your elbow. 

You turn, gasping, “Who did it?!” 

Kyle and Grillby exchange glances, and after a few silent moments filled with the two raising eyebrows and gesturing wildly, the flame monster raises his hand. “Guilty as charged.” 

“Oh my god,” you mutter. You can’t truly believe it was him, but at the same time, you can’t call his bluff. “Okay, okay, just, can we try not to get anymore paint anywhere? I’ve got _things_ in here.” 

_"Babe, there’s something broken about this_

_But I might be hoping about this_

_Oh, what a sin…"_

You don’t realize your protests are futile until you feel another cold, wet splatter on your back. “Are you _serious_?!” There’s nothing else to do but to grab your brush and whirl around. Even though it’s hard to keep the grin off of your face, you manage to sound angry. “What did I _tell_ y’all?!" 

Grillby’s face is blue. “Okay, that really _was_ me this time.” 

“He’s got my back!” Kyle exclaims. 

“ _You fucking snakes_!” You yell, brush flinging forward. Spots of blue hit Grillby’s shirt and he laughs. Kyle’s slowly inching towards the door in an inconspicuous attempt. That’s not working. You see him. He gets it worse than Grillby did, with streaks of paint going all the way down his side. There’s splatters on the floor, but you’re past the point of caring. This is war. 

Paint hits your hair and you nearly screech. The streaks of blue you manage to land on Grillby’s skin start to dissipate and you snap, “Nope! No magic allowed! You keep your wounds like the rest of us!” 

“Shit,” he all but growls. Something carnal in your head takes note of how sheerly _hot_ that sounds, but for now you brush it aside. Heh. Brush. Speaking of brush, you take yours, dipping it in paint. Kyle’s not paying much attention for a moment, but he sure is once you literally paint the back of his neck. 

“Oh my god, that feels so wrong!” He yells, pivoting with remarkable speed. 

You’re too busy laughing to notice Grillby sneaking up behind you. Moments later, millions of flecks of yellow hit your shoulders like freckles of sunshine. 

“No! Get back here, you!” With a scream you turn your back on Kyle and chase the bartender across your room. You need to get him back, hard. Anywhere will do, anywhere you can land your brush, if you can just get close… enough… to… “Ha!” 

“_____!” Kyle yells from behind you, stifling laughter. 

You start to ask what the matter is, but then you see where your brush hit. You didn’t even realize you were aiming that low. Oh fuck, that’s _a lot_ of blue… Oh shit, why did you do that? What’s wrong with you? 

Slowly, and with blue paint dripping down the back of his jeans, Grillby turns around to look you in the eyes. You’ve gone pale because _oh god you made things awkward, why do you have to be so awkward, why did you even…_ And then he starts laughing. Kyle lets his laughter go as well, and eventually you join in. It’s a scene to behold, with you covered in yellow and Kyle covered in blue and Grillby with a fucking painted ass, and the tarps and flooring covered in the aftermath of it all. Your sides hurt as you flop onto your covered bed. Two thuds at your side tell you that you’re not the only one exhausted. 

“Truce?” You breathe. 

“Truce." 

  



	20. From Stains to Salad

  


By the time you’re finished, you’re dead-tired, and the smell of paint has long-since invaded your nostrils and made a home there. However, all that might be worth it. 

“So, what do you two think?” Beside you, Grillby and Kyle look equally exhausted. Paint covers your bodies in randomized patterns of navy and yellow. After the war that the three of you had, the rest of the stains accumulated slowly and gradually over the next few hours.

“Pretty nice,” Kyle replies. He’s back to sitting on your bed, with one leg propped up on the other. For what is probably the third time in the last minute, he sniffs, inhaling the paint. You’re sure his brain cells aren’t taking kindly to that.

“Personally, I think it’s gorgeous,” Grillby comments. Out of the three of you, he’s the messiest. Though you all did the same work, he’s taken the most artistic damage by far, with approximately every last inch of his flaming body covered in paint. The pièce de résistance of his chaotic ensemble is that wide blue stripe going across his ass. Despite your embarrassment and two hours of cool-down, it's still hilarious. The dried paint bends and cracks over his jeans as he leans to get another angle of the room. “I don’t see any mistakes at all, other than the splatters on the floor. By the way, I heard you can get those out by scrubbing the floor with thinner.”

There’s a small smile on your face. “Actually, I think I’m gonna keep them.” Yes, the various spots and streaks of blue and gold across your parquet flooring may look more than a bit juvenile. It hardly matters, though, when you look at them and all you can think about is the fun you had splattering your friends. Your laughter is ingrained into the floor with the splashes of color. There’s no way you can scrub off your memories.

“If you say so,” Grillby says with a nod, “It _does_ seem to tie the room together, albeit in some odd way.” When you meet his eyes, though, he’s got a knowing smile gracing his fiery features, and ever since you made the comment, Kyle’s been grinning too. 

You sigh, clearing your throat. “Okay, so this is all drying. Lunch at Grillby’s?”

“Wait,” Kyle stops you, “I thought we were going to his house?”

“That’s what I meant; we’re going over to Grillby’s.” 

“I know,” your housemate replies, “but when you said Grillby’s it sounded like you meant-“

“Oh!” You chuckle to yourself with the realization. “I guess it did get kinda confusing there.”

Grillby can only grin sheepishly as the two of you confuse his house with his bar. He does hold the door for you, though, when you exit your house. 

From the front porch, you eye the house next to yours. Painted a deep charcoal, Grillby’s home is built in a similar fashion to yours. You’re trying so hard not to snoop _too much_ , but you think you see an upstairs balcony towards the back of the house. You wonder if that connects to the master bedroom. For a moment you space out, thinking of Grillby there on a late night. _He’s out there,_ you imagine, _with a glass of the deepest red wine. He sips it thoughtfully and stares up at the sky, at the glistening stars. Against the night, his body’s a beacon, with his aflame elbows leaning onto the iron railing. While his eyes are in space, his mind flits about, and he’s dreaming, because you just know he’s a dreamer. He’s thinking about…_

“_____, you okay?” When Kyle calls from the gate, you realize you’re sidetracked just a bit (and by just a bit, you mean a shit-ton). With a nod and a conscious effort to keep the redness out of your face, you catch up. 

Grillby’s gate is just like yours, you notice, and then immediately want to kick yourself because _of course his gate is like yours, you share a fucking fence for crying out loud_. Christ, you can be such an idiot sometimes, particularly and especially around Grillby. _Fuck, how bad do you have it again?_ He simply smiles at you when you walk up the paved path to his house. You set eyes on what looks to be fiery dimples on his face and a slick voice in the back of your head nearly croons, _damn bad_. 

His garden’s a chaotic kind of lovely. Yes, there’s flowers, blooms of all kinds, but they’re so _wild_. None of the plants seem to be constrained to any spot, leaving them to spread. Poppies run into Dahlias, Lillies into Lantana, with the colors blending together all over, nearly like…  
_Like an inferno_. The blooms rise up and contrast brightly with the demure gray of the house, red and yellow and pink petals against charcoal siding. It suits him, you reckon. Beautiful, sophisticated, chaotic. Grillby.

Pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, he opens the door for you and Kyle. Kyle goes first. He’s always had this thing for looking into people’s houses. It’s not snooping for him, so much as it’s investigating. You remember this one time when you were fourteen, and there was this Christmas party at a mutual friend’s house… Oh god, that was fun, slinking through the hallways together, finding that crawlspace. You wonder if Grillby has any hidden rooms, or secret spaces in here. 

If he does, then he’s definitely decorated it well. Simply looking at his sitting room shows that the fire monster has an eye for interior design. A taupe velvet sofa is punctuated with wine-tinted pillows that catch your eye from the get-go. You see the same colors in a painting on the wall, and as always with Grillby, there’s a reasonable amount of gray everywhere. 

“It’s so pretty in here,” you gape. 

“Grillby, you need to do our house for us,” Kyle chimes in.

All you get in response is a crackling chuckle as you’re led into the kitchen. It’s a decently-sized one, and part of you wonders if it’s the reason Grillby chose this house to begin with. There’s plenty of counter space, and though you doubt he uses it much, the double-sink’s nice, too. 

Grillby turns to the two of you, with his eyes on his paint-covered body. “Now that the war’s over, and now that I’ll be cooking, do you think- Would it offend you if I used my magic to…”

“Oh no,” You laugh, waving your hand, “Please, go ahead!” You watch the flames that make up his form rise higher, glow brighter, and overtake the stains of paint. The ones on his clothes stay, but any spot on his body vanishes. At that moment you become hyper-aware of the color dotting your body and become envious of his magic. 

He seems to notice this, fixing you with a wry grin and smokey snicker. “If you’d like to wash up as well,” he muses, eyes on your graffiti, "there’s a bathroom off to the side of the room we were just in.” It doesn’t take much of _that_ voice, or _that_ look, for you to become flustered. Shit, what’s wrong with you? He’s just being _nice_!

“Thanks,” you try to brush it off, “I’ll be right back.” With that, you try to ignore the heat on your face, or the heat in the room, or _fucking both, they’re being caused by the same thing,_ and saunter out. 

Grillby waits until he hears the click of a door closing, until you’re out of earshot, to prompt Kyle. “So,” he starts, leaning against the counter, “What do you think she’d say?” 

The blonde gives a shrug, paralleling his stance. “It’s like I said last night. Y’all are getting to know each other pretty fast, but if you really want to go for it, I think she’d say yes.”

“I’m just worried.” The monster sighs, running tense hands through his flaming hair. “What if I’m reading too much into this? What if we’re both wrong? Or what if I’m going too fast with this?” He resorts to tracing the grout in the backsplash next in an attempt to soothe. His index finger caresses the rough, pale gray lines methodically. “I haven’t done this sort of thing in quite a while, Kyle.”

“You rhymed,” Kyle adds offhandedly before continuing. “But anyway, I think you’re freaking out too much about this. _____’s pretty easygoing. If it makes you feel better, wait another week. I’m sure whatever you do, it’ll work out fine.” 

Grillby’s making his way to the refrigerator. “Do you like chicken salad? Does _____?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s great.” He takes a chicken out of a bottom drawer, holding it close as he closes the fridge. “Okay, so say I ask her. Where would she like to go? Do you have any ideas?”

“I mean, she’s not picky, if that’s what you’re wondering. She appreciates nice things, but it’s not expected.”

“I like nice things,” Grillby remarks. 

Kyle eyes the several pieces of crystal glassware hanging on a nearby ebony rack. “You don’t say.”

“Does she dance?” 

“Not on a regular basis,” he replies. He’s scanning Grillby’s home bar. There’s quite a variety, obviously, but it’s clear the man has a preference for wine. There’s four separate bottles of red, and Kyle’s inclined to believe that there’s white in that stainless fridge. “I mean, it’s not like she hates it. She dragged me out to dance at prom.”

“Prom?”

“Oh, it’s like a formal dance thing that high school kids go to.” 

“Ah, I understand,” Grillby gives a nod while getting out a cutting board. Next, he places several stalks of celery on the counter. “Do you think she’d-“ Suddenly, he stops, turning abruptly. “Hush. Act normal.” 

“What-“ Kyle starts, but then you walk into the room.

“Hey,” you greet, propping your now-clean hand against the threshold of the kitchen, “What’d I miss?” From your spot you see your friends exchange glances that you can’t read. Your eyes travel to Grillby, to the counter. “Oh, are you making chicken salad? I _love_ that shit! Grillby, you’re amazing, you know that?”

The bartender can only hope that you don’t catch the anxiety in his eyes. His thoughts swim and drown in each other. _Amazing enough for you, I hope_.

  



	21. From Phone to Dessert

  


Any assumption you had prior to today that Grillby could only cook bar food vanishes the second you take a bite of that chicken salad. Before you can fully comprehend what you’re doing, you’re digging in. The silver fork you’re holding dives into the food on your plate and spreads it onto a piece of pita bread. The warm pita’s so soft and simple that it complements the intricate flavors and textures in the salad just beautifully. He serves you white wine in a frosted glass that sends wet chills up your fingertips. You sip at it idly, the cold, semi-sweet liquor sliding down your throat. Parts of you nearly daze out and disappear into space, but one thing stops you from doing so.

As hard as you try to let it go, you can’t help but notice that Kyle and Grillby are both glued to their phones. You never minded the issue too much, but now that it’s just the three of you at lunch, and it’s _both of them_ that are doing it, it’s starting to get on your nerves. As soon as Grillby sets his phone down, Kyle picks his up. You watch his deft fingers dash across his screen, and in mere moments he returns the device to its spot on the table. A sigh of relief is halfway out of your mouth when the bartender unlocks _his_ phone again. Jesus fuck.

You clear your throat and Grillby flushes, dropping the phone out of his hands and letting it clatter to the tile. Thank God it’s in a case.

“Oh,” he stammers, “I’m sorry, _____.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug. He genuinely sounds apologetic, so you don’t mind. You watch him slowly pick the phone up and slip into the pocket of his pants.

What follows is a silence that borders on awkward. You were never good with these things. As you go back to finishing your food you stare idly out the window in some sort of daze. The grass in Grillby’s backyard is a lush mixture of greens and yellows, just long enough to sway in the late-summer breeze. It’s hot outside, though, too hot for you to even think about being out there. Just nearly brushing your hand close to the glass brings a faint heat to your knuckles. The sun shines through the window, falling into your eyes. Yeah, that’s too much, you’ve got to look away. 

Just as you do, Kyle rises from his chair with an empty plate. “I think I’m gonna go get that sorbet from the house. Where do you want me to put this?”

“Oh,” Grillby replies, “just beside the sink will do fine. I’ll take care of the dishes while you’re gone.”

“Alright.” He sets the empty plate down on the counter next to the sink. “I can’t carry every single tub of sorbet, because _somebody_ bought too many.” He casts a pointed look at you, and you cast a pointed look at your shoes. “So what flavors do you want me to get?” 

“Surprise me,” you reply. “Just make sure you get what Grillby wants."

Kyle directs his attention to the fire monster next.

“I’m fine with any flavor,” he answers. Then he adds, voice barely a wisp, “except vanilla.” 

And you know that as soon as he says it, he’s in for it. You watch your friend’s face spread into a devilish grin. Oh no.

“So,” Kyle says, “you’re not very vanilla, are you, Grillby?” Oh no.

But he only smiles and shoots back, “Not in the slightest.” Oh yes. 

Kyle, stifling laughter, snorts an “oh shit,” and covers his mouth with one freckled hand. “Oh holy shit.” 

Meanwhile, you’re red in the face and have redirected your attention to the ground. You’re trying hard to not think too much on Grillby’s remark, but you just can’t help it. Did he know the full extend of what he said? Fuck, you saw that smirk, of course he did. Your mind starts working at a mile a minute. What exactly is Grillby into? Slowly, your eyes dare to find his fiery form. He’s got that faraway gaze, and that glass of wine. Bondage? Or is that too standard? Ageplay? He seems so refined, so professional, but earlier with the paint, he made you feel like a child… Or temperature play, maybe? Your eyes pan up to the flames of his hair. They sway gently, sending golden sparks that quickly dissipate into the air. His arms are nearly ephemeral, but they still look so firm, so toned. He’s just so _hot_ , and not simply literally.

“Alright, guys, I’ll be back in a sec!” Kyle’s distant call pulls you out of your thoughts. When the front door closes, you’re left alone with Grillby. He pours you another glass of wine, and one for himself as well. You watch him keep his fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass, so as to not warm the wine. As he passes you your drink, you barely touch one another.

“I think he’ll be a bit longer than a sec,” you say, “He’s indecisive. And I honestly lost count of how much sorbet’s in that freezer. I’d give him five minutes, ten tops.” Five to ten minutes alone with him. Your heart flutters at the thought. Why does that make you so nervous? He’s your friend, for Christ’s sake. Your friend whom you happen to have a not-so-little crush on. Fuck. Okay, yeah, you’re nervous.

“So five minutes at the very least. That’s not bad of a wait.” Grillby’s hardly bothered. Why would he be? He sips his wine casually with an elbow propped on the counter. You watch his crystalline-white eyes flick over to the already-running dishwasher, and then to the pile of dishes beside the sink. “Though I do need to take care of the dishes, it seems, and it will take a bit for me to get my gloves on to wash the dishes.”

Before you know it, words are flowing out of your mouth. “Why don’t you let me help you? It’d be easier, anyway, and you won’t even have to put the gloves on.”

“_____, you don’t need to do that.” He shakes his head at you, voice soft. “I’ve invited you ever. Please don’t feel obligated to help me.”

You keep your gaze steady. “But I actually want to.” 

As he kneels to open the sink cabinet he chuckles. “I’m beginning to think you’re crazy.” Grillby pulls out several boxes of gloves not unlike the ones he has at the bar and starts to take a few out. There’s latex and rubber alike, a myriad of clear and yellow that squicks you. You’re not losing this battle.

“Maybe I am crazy,” you shoot back, “but I’m sure as hell washing these dishes for you.” With that, you sweep your arms across the counter, taking all the gloves and their boxes in a bundle. 

“_____!” He reaches for the boxes but you’re clutching them to your chest. Giggles erupt from your mouth as you back away from him. 

“Yes, Grillby?” You’re coy, furthering the distance between you and the bartender but leaning towards him with your body. 

“Let’s settle this like adults.” He’s trying so hard to hold back that wry smile, you just know it. A flaming hand extends towards you, palm-up. “Gloves, please.” 

For a moment you simply stare down at his hand, watching the colors of the fire course about. Are you just going to give him the gloves? You can’t, not after starting this. Hell no. 

Your eyes dart back up to Grillby, and you put on a smile so sweet it could catch flies. “Nope.” Then it’s war.

Before you know it he’s lunging, and you’re side-stepping, but he’s got one of your elbows, and you’re trying to wrench it out of his grip (even if you don’t quite want to) and you do, but he has a hand on your shoulder now, and another on your waist. You’re laughing, half due to his hand being right where it tickles and the other half due to the fact that you still have the fucking gloves, but then he picks you up, and your. Heart. Stops. 

Grillby has you on the kitchen counter now, though you hardly recall him struggling or taking the time to carry you. The marble’s cold, even through the fabric of your pants, but he’s so warm you hardly notice. He’s got his hands on either side of you, with your legs on either side of him.

Your faces are close, closer than they’ve ever been, and that smile of his is downright wicked. His baritone voice is a near-playful growl. “_____, gloves please.” Fucking shit. Some-fucking-how those fucking gloves are still tucked under your arms but you couldn’t care less, not when he’s talking to you like that. You keep them tight against you, if only to keep this going. Even if you have the sneaking suspicion that this isn’t quite about gloves anymore. 

Grillby’s body leans closer to yours, and you catch yourself unconsciously scooting to the edge of the counter. Your legs widen to accommodate the nearly-flush space he’s taking up. You watch his eyes flicker down to your lips. _Is this really happening? Does he really want to?_ You definitely do. His hand wanders up, grazing your face, cupping it oh-so-gently...

“So I got to the freezer and couldn’t decide, and ended up getting like five tubs, so I hope that’s okay!” The next thing you know, Kyle’s voice is cutting through the tension and the front door’s closing and Grillby’s approximately three feet away from you. What just...? Your friend walks into the kitchen with a grocery bag and you have to fight to keep that wistful sigh in your throat.

“It’s fine,” the bartender replies, not missing a beat, “It just gives us more choices.” He takes the bag from Kyle and sets each tub on the table. All the while you’re still on the counter, legs spread, and slack-jawed. You _still_ can’t get a grip. From your position, you can still see all the sorbet flavors. There’s blackberry, pistachio, chocolate, caramel, and… “I think cherry sounds _delicious_ ,” Grillby drawls, and you swear that for a moment he fixes you with a look. 

Kyle glances at you. Oh, he didn’t miss that either.

Grillby says, “Just let me grab a few spoons and we can eat.” With that, he steps over to you, opens one of the drawers between your legs, and pulls out three spoons. “Oh, and _____, let me take those for you,” he continues, and with a slip of his hands, he takes every single glove box from you. 

Like it took him no effort to take them. Like he could’ve done it all along.

  



	22. From Wingman to Wager

  


It’s five in the afternoon and you’ve found yourself back at your new house. You’ve settled yourself into a hand-me-down armchair from your mom and resigned to relaxing for the rest of the day. Grillby recommended it, too, and who are you to argue with him? He seems to know considerable things about hangover remedies. It’s not that you feel _inclined_ to listen to him, or that you even _enjoy_ following his orders or anything!

Nothing like that. At all. No. 

Kyle fixes you with a look from across the living room. Oh boy, he’s onto you.

“What?” You ask, quirking an eyebrow. 

"You’ve been quiet ever since we left Grillby’s place.” 

“Maybe I’m just tired,” you reply. 

“Maybe I’ve known you for over twelve years and I know when you’re _bullshitting_ ,” he retorts, a grin on his face. 

You can feel your cheeks burning, threatening to turn red under the soft lighting. Do you tell him? He looks like he already has at least a faint idea of what went down at Grillby’s. And there was that _compromising_ position he saw you in. _He was gone for ten minutes and you almost kissed…_

Holy fuck, you really actually almost kissed _Grillby_. Grillby, of all people. He almost fucking kissed you. You didn’t imagine that. That _really_ happened. Like it’s _actually_ a thing. 

Kyle’s still staring you down. 

You cave.

“Okay, okay,” you sigh, “so when you went to get the sorbet, some things sort of suddenly happened.” 

“Like how you were _suddenly_ on the counter or how your face was _suddenly_ very close to Grillby’s?” Oh fucking shit, he knew this whole time! Fucking fucker. 

“If you knew, why’d you ask?”

He smirks at you. “I just wanted to see if there was anything I missed.” Your best friend puckers at you and over-exaggerates an air-smooch. “Y’know, anything at all.” 

You groan, rolling your eyes. “Ugh, not yet! I’m like ninety percent sure he was about to, but then _someone_ ,” -you cast him a pointed look- “had to walk in!” 

Kyle shoots back, “Well if it weren’t for me leaving you alone for ten minutes, then you guys wouldn’t have even _had_ that almost-kiss!”

“Wait,” you say, “are you telling me that you left us alone for that long _on purpose_?!”

Your best friend snorts. “Duh, _____. Did you really think I spent ten whole minutes picking out sorbet?” 

Okay, so maybe you need to have more confidence in him. A lot more. Your face is _definitely_ red now. Shit. You go quiet, avoiding Kyle’s gaze. 

“I think you need to relax,” he says finally, breaking the silence. “Stewing over what did happen and what didn’t isn’t gonna calm you down any.” His grey socks brush against the wood floor as he walks into the kitchen. “So I’m gonna make you some tea, and then you’re going upstairs and you’re going to drink it and nap or take a cold shower or whatever it is you think you need right now.” The humming sound of the microwave is heard, followed by his voice. “You’re welcome.” 

“When did you get so snarky?” You ask upon you receiving the hot mug. 

“Around the time I started being a two-way wingman.” 

“Fair enough,” you say. Well, that makes more sense, when you think about it. Kyle and Grillby _have_ seemed rather close, especially today. And the fire monster _has_ been rather forward, definitely more so than you remember when you first met two months ago. Has Kyle been behind all that? Or has he just been pent-up for so long? Hell, how long has he even _had a thing_ for you? Can you even call it a _thing_?

“Go,” Kyle waves you off. “Rest before your mutual pining gives me a headache.” 

Mutual pining? Since when did you become part of a shitty love story?

“Sans, I think I’m going to die.” 

Grillby sighs, reclining on his couch. He props his black socks up on the other end of the sofa. Careful not to drop his cell phone, he takes his glasses off with his free hand. 

“Why, because _____ got you all _hot and bothered_ again?” The skeleton’s cheesy pun doesn’t escape the fire monster, not even over the phone. It’s one he’s heard before, but it’s not like he minds.

“Yes- wait, no. Because I actually worked up the nerve to make a move on her today and then it got thoroughly _fucked_.” 

“Whoa, wait, _you_ made a _move_ on _____?!” 

“Perhaps,” Grillby replies, and then proceeds to panic. “What, was it too soon or something? Do you think I overstepped?” 

“Hey now, you gotta calm down. It’s not like you went carnal and pinned her on your counter or anything.” 

He can feel his own face flushing blue as he resigns himself to a moment of embarrassed silence.

“Grillbz!” Sans exclaims, his voice crackling a bit through the speakers. “You didn’t!” 

“I couldn’t help it!” He groans. “Stars, just dust me already.” He throws his flaming hands out in exasperation. What in the world’s gotten into him? Over these past two months, he was _fine_! And now you’re back, and it’s as if his brain (and god, his _cock_ ) are in absolute overdrive. It’s the little things you do, it’s everything you do, it’s… “I’m going crazy, Sans. I hate it, I love it! I hate her, I l-“

“ _Whoa there, pal_!” Sans interjects. “Uh, yeah, you need to calm down. Like, a lot.”

“Or you can just kill me like I’ve been suggesting and we can solve this problem right away.” 

The skeleton snorts and says, “Or you can _live_ a little and, y’know, ask her on a date already.” 

“What if she says no?” He’s running his hand through the flames of his hair, as he tends to when he’s in deep thought, or distress, or both. Currently, it’s both. “I could have read things _very wrong_. What if she was simply too nervous to push me away? She seemed so flustered. I don’t want her to feel pressured. I just, I try so hard to keep myself composed and be a complete gentleman around her, but lately I can’t do it. Maybe it’s best to just drop this whole thing.” 

“Or maybe you’re overthinking.” 

“Like you’d know how she feels.” 

“I mean,” Sans sighs, "it’s not like I’ve had the same amount of time to get to know her or anything. And it’s not like I read you both when you’re talking to each other, or looking at each other, or, hell, even in the same room as each other.” He coughs, and Grillby can practically see that wide grin across his skull. “That’d be hilarious, y’know, if I even had the faintest idea that she had a thing for you.” 

Grillby snorts, “Asshole.” 

“Ask her out!”

“Pay your tab!” the bartender retorts. 

There’s a bark of laughter on the other end. “Alright, alright. Fine. You can wait til I save up the money to pay my tab off, and _then_ you gotta ask _____ out. Should give you plenty of time to _spend_ thinking things over.”

“Do you even know how much your tab _is_? That may take a while.” 

“I’m sure it’s not that bad. C’mon, Grillbz, _pay_ it on me.

So Grillby sighs, takes a minute or two to find the document on his phone with _all_ of Sans’ purchases on it, and then tells his friend the price. 

He hears him suck in a breath. “Shit, all _that_?” 

“Are you backing out?” 

There’s a moment of silence over the phone. The fire monster props his elbow against a throw pillow, his head tilted against the phone. He breathes for a moment. If the skeleton _does_ agree, he’ll have quite a while to determine your true feelings towards him. And if he _doesn’t_ , then he’ll just have to prepare for more pestering. 

“Nah,” Sans says after the prolonged second. “I’m still in. I scrounge up the cash, pay you off, and then you gotta _settle up_. Alright? No _refunds_ , no take-backs.”

“You won’t hear any of those from me,” Grillby says, “Deal.” 

“Fun,” Sans says. “Now I gotta go help Paps with dinner. We’re trying chicken pot pie tonight, and I gotta make sure he doesn’t bake it in an actual pot.” 

“Sounds riveting,” the bartender replies, chuckling a bit. “I’ll see you at the bar later tonight, I assume?” 

“You’d assume correctly. I’ll see you later.”

When the fire monster hangs up the phone, he can’t help but smile a bit to himself. Sans is a man that enjoys bets and riddles, so he can’t be surprised about the wager. They’ve made playful bargains together before. However, maybe the skeleton’s given him _too much time_ for this one. He’ll never disclose the full extent of Sans’ tab to anyone else, but oh, it’s a lengthy one. By the time he _does_ ask you out, Grillby will have enough money to buy you whatever you need. 

Nevertheless, though, he can’t feel high and mighty forever. It’s time for him to get ready to open the bar for the night. He takes his time getting ready, assuring that he looks like a respectable bar owner of a respectable bar. His uniform is clean and tonight his bowtie is dark gray. He even spritzes on a bit of cologne, just in case you decide to drop by. 

When he backs his motorcycle out of the driveway he notices that the red flag on his mailbox is up. After checking his watch, he decides that it won’t hurt to take the mail in. He gathers it all into a stack: yesterday’s newspaper, flyers, a few bills, and on top of it all, a small blue check.

  



	23. From Checks to Breaks

  


One week.

Grillby has one week to ask you on a date. 

The check that Sans had placed in his mailbox the other day didn’t bounce, much to his surprise. When he’d called his longtime friend in astonishment, the skeleton only said something about the wager not being fair like this. He offered to remedy the situation by “throwing a bone,” as he put it, and gave Grillby an extension. 

In other, less dire circumstances, the fire monster would’ve declined the generosity. A bet is a bet. Sans settled his end in a matter of hours. But of course, these terms were never ordinary. These… feelings, they aren’t ordinary.

He’d take the week, no more, no less.

With six days ahead of him, Grillby's contemplating how he’s even going to go about this as he opens up his bar for the evening. Texting or calling is out of the question. He could simply go to your door and ask you, but where’s the fun in _that_? He’d prefer something interesting, something that would definitely make you smile.

With a sigh, he finishes cleaning the glass in his fiery hands. It’s almost therapeutic for him to polish them, with the methodical swipes and buffs of the cloth and whatnot. The glass is placed on its rack, and he moves to the next one. When he’s satisfied, he gives his inventory a final check and flips the switch on the “open” sign by the door.

Running the place by himself has never been a problem. If he works efficiently and keeps organized, then everything goes smoothly. Even on the surface, where everything is more populated, more thriving, more, more, more, he thinks he does decently.

The crowd pours in slowly tonight, reflective of a typical weeknight. Sans strolls in at about a quarter to five, presumably on a break from one of his odd jobs. It’s never clear what he does, but Grillby knows that his jobs never seem to last long. The skeleton leaves the bar shortly after, only to return again at seven.

“Done with work?” The fire monster asks.

“Finally,” Sans snorts, “Rough day. Had to really put my _backbone_ into it.”

“For some reason, I think that’s bullshit,” Grillby chuckles, concocting the usual for his friend. Were he a classier sort of man, he wouldn’t dare mix _ketchup_ into any of his drinks. However, in this case, he supposed that he’d rather be a good friend than a distinguished bartender. So with a smile he hands Sans his disgrace of a drink, celery stick and all.

“You insult me, Grillbz. I’ll have you know I only took five breaks today.”

“Oh really? Would you like to know how many breaks I’ve taken today?” The fire monster smiles wryly across the bar, not needing to say anything more to get Sans to hush. 

Maybe you will come by tonight. He hasn’t seen you since lunch the other day, since the _counter incident_. Just thinking about it causes Grillby to heat up even more. He makes a drink or two with the flaming tops of his hair shooting up erratically.

“You know I can text her, right?” Sans says when he reaches his end of the bar. “She doesn't even have to know you asked about her.”

How did the skeleton even know you were on his mind? Well, it’s not as if he’s even hiding his attraction to you anymore. Sans has always had a good intuition, though. 

“Why would you do that?” Grillby asks. “Isn’t it _my_ job to ask her out?” 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give you a nudge.”

“That check in the mail was a nudge enough, Sans,” the bartender replies. His friend’s tab was, without exaggeration, astronomical. It’s hard to believe that he has a clean slate now. “Anyway, I think you’re too late on your offer to text _____.” 

With a smile, he nods over to the bar entrance, where Kyle holds the door open for you. You give a smile and a wave as you walk into the establishment, eyes searching for seats. There are two stools side-by-side at the bar, just one down from Sans. 

“Hey Grillbz, Bone-daddy,” Kyle remarks, nodding to each of them. 

You snort, then quickly cover your mouth in embarrassment. How cute, Grillby thinks. 

“And what will it be tonight?” He asks, fixing his eyes on you (as if they weren’t already there). 

You order a drink from the menu, something you haven’t tried yet. It’s one of the recipes Grillby made up himself, and he’s quite proud of it. 

Kyle can’t make a decision, so the flame monster resolves to come back to him in a few moments. As always, he’s meticulous when crafting your drink. The glass is polished, the liquid cleanly poured. There’s not one drop out of place. He garnishes it with a mint sprig and a lemon, handing it to you with a crackling smile. 

“Oh, Grillby, thank-“ Before you can finish, though, your phone goes off. “Fuck.” Your smile flattens to a grimace upon looking down at the screen. 

Whoever’s calling you must be quite distasteful, to put that kind of sneer on your face. Grillby’s mood just nearly plummets to see you like that. 

“Ugh, give me a second,” you say to him barely a second before hopping up and walking out of the restaurant.

“Hello?” You ask, picking up the phone just before the ringing stops. You had to use every ounce of integrity you had to keep it from going to voicemail.

But you wanted to, _oh you wanted to_. You’ve come out here tonight to enjoy a night with your friends (and your crush), but instead you’re standing outside the bar. The warm, still air of summer surrounds you as you prop yourself against the brick exterior of Grillby’s.

“Well, hello there, daughter! Didn’t think you’d answer this time!” Your father’s chipper voice calls over your speakers. Always so over-eager. 

“Whelp, I did,” you reply bluntly. “So here I am. What do you need?”

You wouldn’t be so brisk with your dad if he was, you know, actually a good father. Instead, the man opted to cheat on your mom multiple times and depend on alcohol to solve his many issues (spoiler alert: they didn’t). In a divorce, one person isn’t typically completely at fault, but you’d consider this pretty close.

As of recent, he’s opted to try and mend your relationship. You've… not been very receptive to his attempts, to say the least.

“I just wanted to see what you’re up to, how you’ve been adjusting to the new house and all.” 

“It’s good.” You swat at a mosquito absentmindedly. They’re crazy as hell at this time of night. The little pest only circles you again, and as you frantically wave your free hand, you barely catch what your father’s saying.

“Are you going to be coming to the reunion next month?” He asks. 

You can hear the hope in his voice and try to hold back the sigh. Every decade or so, his hyper-extended family always tried to host a reunion of sorts, so everyone could get together and catch up. You’d always thought it was stupid, the assortment of hodgepodge casseroles and the numerous strangers that came up to you and talked about how they hadn’t seen you since you were “insert height here.”

“Well, you never told me when or where it was, so…” you trail off with a roll of your eyes. Does he just forget about things? You know the alcohol messed with his memory every now and then, but he never even _mentioned_ this before now. 

“It’s at your Aunt Pearl’s house this time, you know, the one up on the hill?”

“Yes, dad, I know where Aunt Pearl lives.” A rabbit monster makes their way towards the restaurant, and you inch to the side so that they can get to the door properly. Lucky soul.

“And it’s going to be on August 29th. Just a little less than a month from now, so write that down in your calendar!” 

“Mhm, will do.” You _will_ , however, write down August 28th, the day you will call your father to explain you have a life-threatening illness. Yes, it’s a dick move, but it’s one you’re willing to do.

“Are you going to bring a date? There’s plenty of room for him if you have one!”

You glance inside the bar. Through the paned glass you see the fiery silhouette of the bartender, embers gently wavering into the restaurant air. 

“I doubt it.” Yeah, that’s probably not happening, at least not in the next month. That’d be so embarrassing, reserving a plus-one, hyping your dad up for a date that doesn’t show up. Fun.

“Don’t lose hope yet!” Your dad says from over the phone, “Someday, you’ll find yourself a man that takes great care of you and has great hair.” 

_Someone to take care of you. As if that’s what you need._

“Maybe,” you reply curtly. The bar’s getting crowded, you notice, and you decide to cut the call short. It’s drifting into unwanted territory, anyway. “Look, um, I’ll go to the reunion, but right now I’m out eating with some friends. Can we talk more about this later?” 

“Sure, _____. You can call me anytime. I’m always here for you, I promise. I love you, you know that?”

“You too.” And without waiting for another reply, you hang up.

He’s so exhausting. You need a drink.

It seems as if every seat except yours is taken up. Thankful for Kyle saving your chair, you plop back down with a sigh. He now has a mojito in his hand, and it looks like he’s having a drinking contest with Sans. The skeleton seems to be downing his ketchup concoction with ease. It makes you shudder a bit.

Your drink sits untouched, impeccable as it was before you left. It’s so delicious, with the mint contrasting perfectly against the gentle fruity notes of the beverage (though you can’t quite place _what_ fruit it is). It’s a light purple color, your drink is, so the bright yellow sheen of the lemon almost pops over the rim.

Oh god, you needed this. 

Grillby is, of course, running himself ragged. He darts from table to table, taking orders and dishes, only to dash into the kitchen to put the dishes down and make food. If he were closer, you’d thank him for the drink. You wish you could help, but you doubt he’d actually let you. He takes pride in his work, you’ve noticed, so much that he insists on doing everything himself. While admirable, you just wish he’d take a break. 

Ten minutes later, he gets back to the bar. “What do you think of it?” He asks you. 

“I think I need another,” you reply with a smile. Quickly, though, you tack on, “Of course, whenever you can. You know I can wait.” 

“That’s admirable of you,” Grillby says, taking the glass. “Personally, I can’t stand to wait very long for _anything_.” As he turns to make your drink, you think you see the trace of a smirk on his face. 

You order a serving of fries, too, and they come out hot and covered in salt. The skeleton a few seats down from you slides a bottle of ketchup your way.

“Thanks," you tell him, “but I’d rather go _sans_ condiments this time.” 

That makes him laugh, and your bartender even chuckles a bit too. 

You stay the rest of the evening, eating, drinking, chatting with your friends. You talk about the job applications you’ve put out, and how you really hope to get hired at this one record shop a few streets over. Sans makes too many music puns. The time goes by fast, even quicker so once the dinner rush ends and Grillby has more time to lounge. The whole time, you can’t seem to take your eyes off of him. He always looks so crisp in that work uniform, and then there’s his eyes. They’re white-hot and seem to just penetrate you entirely. 

Not that you’re thinking of penetration or anything.

At midnight, Sans checks out. He sets down his now-empty glass and hops down from the barstool with ease.

“Tell Papyrus ‘hello’ for me,” Grillby remarks. 

Kyle chimes in, “I dunno who Papyrus is, but tell him ‘hey' for me too.”

“Will do,” the skeleton says. “I’ve been meaning to bring him by here, ‘cause he’ll come with good reason, but I’ll mention that there’s some new friends he needs to meet.” 

You’re his friend. He considers you a friend. Though it might’ve been obvious before, Sans doesn’t seem like the type to get emotional, so you can appreciate the sentiment. He leaves in a flash of blue light, leaving only you, Kyle, and a few stragglers. 

It’s quiet, the jukebox droning absently in the background. 

Your housemate turns to you. “What was that call earlier about? I’ve wanted to ask, but there were a lot of people around.” 

“Just my dad,” you reply, eyes on your drink.

“Yikes.” Kyle’s been your friend since you were kids; he was there through the messy divorce. He’s even witnessed your dad’s alcoholism first-hand while hanging out a few times. 

“Yeah. He’s still trying that super-peppy bullshit. Cut it short, though.” It occurs to you now that Grillby may be listening, but you don’t mind. You trust him, and know he won’t pry.

“I dunno what he’s doing, dude. He fucked you and your family up pretty bad.” He takes another sip of his drink, staring ahead at the wall.

“Family’s family,” is all you can say. That’s the reason you give every time someone asks why you haven’t cut your father off yet.

Yeah, Grillby’s definitely listening. He’s got his elbows propped up on the bar. 

You turn to him and allow Kyle to space out, as he usually does when he gets tired. “Do you have any close family, Grillby?"

“Not exactly,” the fire monster replies, voice wispy. “There are other fire elementals, like myself, and we get along just fine. However, I don’t have any relatives.” 

“Oh,” you sigh softly. It sounds so sad, to not have any family to go to. You couldn’t imagine life without your mom, or Uncle Michael, or...

“Sans and his brother, Papyrus, are something like family to me,” Grillby says. “We always spend holidays together, and it helps that they don’t live very far away.” 

“Aw, that’s sweet.” You knew he and Sans knew each other fairly well, but to consider each other family… it makes you feel better, that even if he doesn’t have any kin, Grillby is close enough with others that he’s not alone.

“It was harder, before,” the bartender starts, speaking as he wipes down the counter. “At one point, they lived further from here, for-“

“Hey, _____,” Kyle interrupts with a yawn. “I’m getting tired. Do you wanna head out?” 

“Um,” you start, glancing between him and Grillby.

The fire monster suggests, “If you want to stay until after closing, I’ll be happy to take you home. After all, we live right next to each other. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kyle murmurs. He’s fit to drive, too. Even if he’s sleepy, he hasn’t had a new drink in the past hour. 

“Get home safe,” Grillby says softly, beating you to it. 

“That’s my line,” you quip. In all honesty, you’re not even tired. The citrus in your drink must’ve rejuvenated you to some degree. 

Closing is in about an hour and a half. Glancing around, you see that the other patrons have left already. As Kyle opens the door, keys in hand, he looks back at you and winks, fully awake.

You turn your attention to Grillby. He’s simply beautiful, flames crackling in the now-silent bar.

“Tonight’s rush was rough. You okay?” You ask. You’ve never seen him move that quickly before.

“I’ll live,” he smirks. “I’ve handled worse before. Besides, it helps to have nice company.” 

Propping your head in your hands, you look up at him. “You deserve a break, you know. I’m not talking about the mornings you have off. I mean like, an actual break. Take a thing or two from Sans.” 

“It’s never any trouble, though. I love running the bar, so much that it’s hardly work to me.” 

That’s charming. Someone who actually loves what they do. It’s endearing, almost, that this restaurant is something of a baby to him, something that he takes care of and takes pride in. 

You’re cut off by a sudden clamor from across the bar. Grillby is polishing glasses with a new fervor, ensuring that they’re clean with breakneck speed and precision. You're amazed at how fast he's going, without even breaking a single glass. The counter's already clean, too. In fact, the bar doesn't seem to be very dirty. You're assuming he must clean a little as he goes. However, _this_ is a bit ridiculous.

“What’s the rush?” You ask.

“I suppose, though, that tonight I could close early, and take something of a break.” He chuckles. "That is, if you’d like to take a walk with me."

  



	24. From Sweeping to Streetlights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's jam-a-long is "All For You" by Sister Hazel!

  


Grillby tells you that he can clean up and close by himself.

Of course, you don’t listen. 

As soon as the fire monster turns his back, you hop from your little red barstool and sneak around him. The door marked “employees only” is ajar, making it all the more easier for you to slip inside and find the broom. It’s an old, worn one, and you wonder if he brought it up from Underground. Gripping the wooden handle and keeping the bristles off of the ground, you take the broom and walk back into the dining area of the bar. 

You’ve barely taken two steps before Grillby just barely turns his head.

“Don’t think I haven’t heard you.” 

“Heard me doing what?” You put on the most confident tone you can manage as you hide the broom behind your back. As if that’ll do anything. 

“Trying to _help,_ ” He replies, and you think you see a grin cross his profile, “as you always do.” 

“I can’t help it,” you defend yourself, “I can’t just _sit and do nothing_ while you clean the whole bar!” 

“Why not? It’s my bar, and you’re my guest.” When he turns to actually look at you, the jagged light that makes up his mouth widens in amusement. Oh, you’re still “hiding” the broom. 

“Guest?” You can’t help the snort that comes out of your mouth. “I practically live here, Grillbz. I’ve spent more time here than I have at my new house! I should be paying you _rent_ or something!”

Sparks fly towards the ceiling when he chuckles, his flames crackling.

“Trust me, _____, your presence is payment enough. Oh, and whatever drinks you force me to take your money for.”

As you talk, you try to sweep, hoping the motion is so casual he doesn’t notice. “You run an establishment. An establishment to make _money_. When I come here, I come here to support you.” 

“Is _that_ the only reason you’re here?” There’s a playful tone to his voice, but the way he looks at you with the fiery whites of his eyes conveys a hidden intensity.

“That,” you reply, and with a daring grin you add, “and because you’re hot.”

Was that too much? You don’t miss the flush of white across his face, or the height at which his flames reach. They nearly graze the ceiling of the bar. Oh shit, what if that was too much?

Grillby's voice is reduced to a grumble. “I think Sans is rubbing off on you. Hush and go sweep.”

Oh, he thought you were joking. Nevertheless, he still seems taken aback. He’s cute like that, though, fiery hair wild and uncontrollable. 

“I thought you didn’t want me sweeping?” You poke.

“I changed my mind, and I actually could use your help. Go sweep so we can finish and get some air.” He’s almost stern, but amidst the new edge to his voice there’s the smoky softness that you’re used to.

Did you fluster him that badly? You don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or accomplished. With a shrug, you go about sweeping the bar.

There’s little messes scattered about the floor here and there. Potato slivers near the prep station, lemon peel next to the counter, leftover from peeled garnish. You sweep it into a pile that keeps growing. 

Grillby’s cleaning the tables now. He’s already finished cleaning the glasses, and now he has a cloth and some sort of cleaning agent in a bottle. Well, you suppose it can’t hurt him, if it’s not water-based. He’s been on the surface for five years; you’re sure he has a handle on this. 

Your broom brushes the side of the jukebox. Music’s been playing idly from it, quiet enough for you to not have been paying much attention before. Now, though… 

You fish through your pockets for the dollars you were going to make Grillby accept as tip money. He’s going to get it through this, anyway. While you make your selection, you make sure to turn up the volume on the machine. It’s after hours, so it wouldn’t be overbearing or rude, you don’t think.

The song starts, and out of the corner of your eye you see the fire monster turn his head towards you.

_"Finally I figured out_

_But it took a long, long time_

_But now there's a turnabout_

_Maybe 'cause I'm trying…"_

Ah, a classic. You smile as you sway your hips (and broom) to the beat. Cleaning is so much easier when there’s music involved. 

You still feel that set of white-hot eyes on you. Why’s he staring? Is it because of the music, or…

_”…It’s hard to say what it is I see in you_

_Wonder if I’ll always be with you_

_But words can’t say, and I can’t do_

_Enough to prove it’s all for you…”_

Before you know it, there’s a gentle tap on your shoulder. You didn’t know he was this close. When you turn, though, the broom is taken out of your hands. Grillby lets go of it, and it falls to the ground with a clunk. Both of your hands are left open, palms-up towards one another. 

“Care for a partner?” He asks, voice low.

Oh god, this is actually happening.

_”…There’s been times, I’m so confused_

_And all my roads, well they lead to you_

_I just can’t turn and walk away…"_

You put your hands in his, and he pulls you out onto the floor of the bar. You have more space to move, with your shoes tapping against the wood. He takes the lead in a simple stepping motion, your joined hands between the two of you. 

It’s a clumsy, albeit playful dance. You stick your tongue out at him and he laughs. Amidst his chuckling he misses a step and stumbles. Now it’s your turn to giggle, and before you know it the both of you are holding onto each other and laughing.

His laughter’s so beautiful. _He_ is. 

_”...Rain comes pouring down_

_Falling from blue skies_

_Words without a sound_

_Coming from your eyes…”_

The song surges into a guitar solo, and you’re caught off guard when Grillby raises one arm and twirls you underneath it. You gasp. He twirls you right back under, ready to catch your grip with his other hand. 

“Too much spinning?” He teases. “I can stop if you want.” 

Maybe you’re a little dizzy, but you’re not giving up that easily.

“No way,” you counter. 

In response, you’re twirled again, and again, and again. Your hair brushes his fire, but you’re not afraid. You know by now that he won’t burn you. You like his heat, the warm air rushing around you. In your vision, the bar spins in a blur of browns and reds. All you can hear is the happy crackling of flames. 

You start to lose your balance, but you know he’ll catch you.

Without fail, he does, this time with your fingers interlocking. His hands are warm in yours, and when you look up at him he’s got that cute white zigzag of a fiery smile on his face.

The chorus repeats, with only the percussion in the background this time. Amidst the gentle taps of the drum and your dizzy stumbling around, you realize just how bad you have it for the bartender holding onto your hands.

_”…It’s hard to say what it is I see in you_

_Wonder if I’ll always be with you_

_But words can’t say, and I can’t do_

_Enough to prove it’s all for you…”_

The music picks back up, and suddenly you find yourself dancing quicker. The two of you circle about the bar floor together, stepping closer to one another to avoid the chairs and pub seats. You haven’t really danced like this in a while. As a matter of fact, you can’t even _remember_ the last time you danced with someone.

You dance through the end of the song, swaying with the music. When it finally fades out, you’re unsure of whether to keep a hold on Grillby or let go. 

He makes the decision for you, gently lowering your hands and releasing you from his warm, gentle grip. 

“I hope that was fun for you, too,” he says.

“It was,” you reply, unable to fight off the smile on your face. “Let’s get back to cleaning so we can get out of here.” 

“Actually,” Grillby starts, after raising an arm to sheepishly run a hand through his flaming hair, “there’s not much left to do. I’ve cleaned all the surfaces, and you’re nearly done sweeping, but I could just finish tomorrow when I come to open.” 

“You sure?” You eye the part of the restaurant that you haven’t even gotten to yet. “I haven’t done much to help you.” 

He only smiles warmly (no pun intended) at you. “I’m sure, _____. Give me a minute to grab my things.” 

You can hardly contain your excitement as you wait on Grillby. A walk. You’re going on a walk with him. Just the two of you. Alone. At night. 

It’s almost romantic.

The sky is long past being black by the time Grillby flips the switch on the neon “OPEN” sign in the front window. As he holds the door open for you, you check the time on your phone. It's 1:02 a.m, an hour earlier than he usually closes. The warm evening air brushes your cheeks pleasantly. 

“Where to?” You ask after he locks the bar door. The two of you linger out front, under the restaurant’s canopy.

“Your choice,” he tells you, “After all, you’re the one who suggested this ‘break.’” The way he says “break" like it’s so foreign to him makes you laugh a little.

“Let’s go this way,” you say, and some brave part of you grabs his hand to lead the way. He doesn’t let go, even as you’ve started walking. However, he _does_ rearrange your grip so your fingers are intertwined. Neither of you say anything about it. Is it out of awkwardness, or just because it feels so natural? 

_You’re holding hands with Grillby_ , you think to yourself, almost in shock. His hand seems to heat up more, and when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you see that he’s blushing. 

The streets aren’t quite isolated, considering all the bars and clubs open along this strip, but you were honestly expecting more people to be out. You think back to a few months ago, when the bartender took you back to your hotel room, and how bustling the streets were. You nearly lost him in the crowd. Tonight, though, you have no issue staying by his side. 

You pass a row of tiny shops, all closed in the early morning.

“Do you ever go into any of these stores?” You ask. “They’re so close to the bar. If I worked where you did I’d spend all my money.” 

“I don’t go shopping a lot,” Grillby replies, adding, “This is going to sound sad, but I don’t really do much outside of work.” 

“What about Sans and his brother? You said y’all were close. Sounds like they’d drag you out to do things.”

Grillby uses his free hand to wave it a bit, in an “eh, kinda” sort of gesture.

“They try, I think. They’re always asking me to come eat with them, watch movies, things like that. Sure, that’s fine, but it’s when they invite me to parties, or just get-togethers with monsters I don’t really know very well, that I, uh…” He coughs out a few sparks, and sighs. “I don’t think I’m a _people-person_ , if that’s what you want to call it.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, you do just fine to me.” You can’t help but swing your arms back and forth a bit. “You manage all your bar patrons pretty well, and that’s basically like dealing with a big party all night, every night."

“That’s one way to look at it, _____. Thank you.” 

A small silence settles over the both of you. It’s a comfortable one, during which you walk past the seemingly-infinite row of shops and bars.

The strip does end, though, and you’re met with a grassy square of a park. Slender, iron streetlights dot the pathway winding about the square. Your sidewalk diverges, and the two of you take the path leading into the park. 

It’s quiet, but not silent. Crickets chirp, and deeper into the background you can hear distant car-horns honking. Is that a police siren? You wouldn’t be surprised. 

“This is nice,” Grillby comments. “I can’t even remember the last time I did something this relaxing. But it’s… fun. I like it.” 

_I like you_ , you think, words that you want to say but never seem to get the courage to. _You’re still holding his hand_. Shit, now you’re blushing. Despite that, though, you try to stay calm when you talk.

“If you’re really having fun, then maybe we can do stuff like this together more often.” 

It’s only after you’ve finished speaking, and the fire monster tenses up, that you realize what that sounds like. 

_He thinks you just asked him out. You just made it awkward. Shit, shit, shit._

Grillby’s voice is deep, and thick with some emotion you can’t place. “About that.” 

He takes a seat on a nearby bench, and when you sit beside him your hands slip from one another. When he turns to face you, you notice that the whites of his eyes are crinkled with obvious concern. Or is it pity? _It’s pity. He’s going to reject you on this park bench and you’ll have to call Kyle to come pick you up because it’ll be weird._

Grillby says, “Look, I’ve been meaning to get around to this ever since you’ve moved in. But so much has been going on, with the bar, and with you getting settled in, it’s been hard to really sit and talk about it.” A hand goes to the back of his head, mussing up the flames of his hair. Is he nervous? 

“But every time I get a chance, or every time I see you, really, I can’t really think straight enough to tell you, or I just get so _anxious_ that I can’t even bother trying to get the words right. I’m not very good with words at all, and I’m sorry. But I…” 

He trails off, and you’re left looking at him with an arched eyebrow and a cocked head. Well, you know he said he wasn’t good with words, but still, you’re baffled. What kind of rejection is this? It doesn’t sound like one at all. It honestly sounds like…

“Grillby?” You say his name quietly, gently. 

He finally meets your eyes, and for a beat you just stare at one another under the pale glow of the streetlight.

Then you hear him mutter something that sounds like, “Fuck it,” and before you can ask about it, his mouth is against yours.

  



	25. From Bench to Chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this one is "I'm on Fire" by Bruce Springsteen

  


Fire. Everything’s hot all over. You’re on fire. There’s warmth concentrated at your shoulders, through your hair, on your lips.

You’re _kissing_ fire. Grillby's actually _kissing you_. 

He’s solid, surprisingly, but soft. His mouth is feather-light over yours, wisping against you as the crackling of his form gets louder. You slip your arms around his neck. The collar of his shirt grazes your wrists, and you still can’t get over how _warm_ he feels. 

It’s just one kiss, but it’s so slow, and gentle. You’re still in disbelief, even as his mouth presses against yours. Before you know it, though, it’s over.

Grillby pulls back and his face is white-hot, tinged blue at the cheeks. You assume you’re probably just as flushed. His flames are high, whooshing about erratically. He doesn’t speak, but the crackling of his hot fire speaks volumes enough. 

The yellowing bulb in the lamp above you flickers. Somewhere off to your left, crickets chirp in the grass. It’s late, and dew’s beginning to gather for the morning. Everything’s so quiet, but the inferno coursing through you is screaming. 

_You actually kissed him._

“Wow,” you breathe, finally, amidst the cacophony of the insects. 

“I feel the same,” Grillby muses, laughter in his smokey voice. God, his laugh is just so _cute_. 

You can’t help giggling at him, and reflexively move your hand over your mouth. However, the fire monster quickly grabs your wrist.

“Hold on. Didn’t I tell you before not to cover up your face when you laugh?” He’s got a smile on his face, but there’s intense heat in his soft white eyes as he pulls your hand away.

“Maybe,” you say. 

“I think _yes_ is the right answer.” He’s still holding onto your hand, you notice. With a twist of his wrist, he gets a more comfortable grip, with your fingers intertwined. His hand is bigger than yours, but not outrageously so. Red, orange, and yellow hues flicker around your fingers, and some of the fire even wavers and wraps around your skin. It’s not uncomfortable at all, it’s just… warm. 

When you don’t say anything, Grillby leans closer. “I mean it, _____. You’re beautiful.” 

“So are you.” 

He’s close enough to kiss again, so you do. It catches him by surprise, making him hum a little. You smile against his mouth. He tastes like smoke, faintly so. He smells like it too, with a hint of something green and piney. 

Oh, now he’s completely blue. You show him some mercy and settle for just holding hands, at least for the moment. In a few minutes you’ll probably kiss him again, you think. You can’t help that he’s just so… 

_Him._

“You wanna keep walking?” You ask, tugging on his hand. “Now that we’ve got all this out of the way and you didn’t reject me and shatter my heart to pieces like I thought you would?”

“Shatter your- Christ, ______, I’d _never_!” He exclaims, even more flushed now. He squeezes your fingers in his. 

“Well I know that _now_ , dork.” You tease. He stands up with you, and you make sure to grab your handbag before you resume walking. 

You cut through the grass on your way out of the small park, being mindful of the flowerbeds. The beginnings of cool dew brush the edges of your sandals, and a breeze caresses your bare legs. You’re reminded of how long it’s been since you shaved. Under a streetlamp you catch sight of a cricket, playing along to distant jazz music. Saxophone, trumpet, string bass, cricket. 

After a moment, Grillby turns to you and asks, “Did you seriously think I would reject you?"

“…Maybe?” You’re hoping the warm-toned light emitting from the monster will hide the blush on your face.

“You know, I’d tell you that you were crazy, but I was thinking you’d do the same to me.” 

“What the hell?” You ask with a grin, gripping him tighter. “You’re so _great_ though! You’re nice, and you’re talented, and you’re really witty, and did I mention you’re _hot_ and- oh god are you okay?”

While you were talking, his flames have gotten much larger, waving about erratically. He’s warmer, too. Did you fluster him? 

“I’m- I’m fine,” he crackles out, covering his face with his empty hand. 

“Didn’t you just tell me not to do that?” You move the hand away, and though he’s attempting a glare that doesn’t quite carry, his exposed expression’s so soft, so sweet.

You swing your conjoined arms back and forth, admiring the way his fire moves with the motion. Swing forward, and heat travels from your back to your front. Swing back, and golden embers release into the air. The swinging intensifies, gradually getting faster and higher until you’re straining your reach. Before you realize, you’re standing on your tiptoes to reach as high as he can.

Grillby only laughs once he notices your struggle, and relents the swinging.

“So this begs the question,” he asks after a moment, “If you’re interested in me, am I the whole reason you moved here?” When he sees your expression, he quickly puts a hand up to defend himself. “That sounded really arrogant of me, I’m sorry- I just knew that you and your friends were considering a lot of places, and then two of them didn’t even move here with you, and I know you and Kyle don’t exactly have stable jobs yet, so it made me wonder-“

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you laugh, “but no, you’re not the only reason I moved here. For starters, I’ve wanted to move to this area for a while. Then, me and the others knew there was a chance we wouldn’t end up liking the same places, so we were already open to the idea of splitting up if needed. And yeah, we don’t have jobs yet, but there’s so many opportunities for work here, especially because I want to do music. And then there’s the house, holy fuck it’s beautiful…” You look at him and grin as you grab hold of his arm to walk closer. “And maybe the stunningly handsome neighbor might’ve influenced me a little bit.” 

He mutters, “If you keep complimenting me like that, dear, I’m going to combust.” 

“Please don’t,” you hug onto his arm tighter, giggling. “I just got to kiss you. Don’t want it to be over already!” You don’t brush over the fact that he just called you _dear_ and it sounded so sweet and you definitely wouldn’t be opposed to hearing it again.

“Trust me,” Grillby assures you, “It’s not over- wait, hold on a minute, are we _together_ now? I’d be happy with it, surely, but we never exactly said and-“

“Can we be?” You cut him off. _God, how desperate did that sound?_

But he replies, “I don’t see why not. I’d love to,” and you relax again. 

_Together_. You’re… together now. The two of you pass by a lit-up bar with all its doors open, and slow down to look inside. Dollar-store string-lights hang from the ancient ceilings, and the speakers are blasting an old Bruce Springsteen song. The steady guitar wanders out into the street.

_”Tell me now, baby_

_Is he good to you_

_Can he do to you_

_The things that I do_

_I can take you higher_

_Oh, I’m on fire…"_

“It’s your song,” you tease Grillby, and it takes him a moment to get it, but you know when he does because he breaks out into a crackling groan of amused exasperation. 

“I’ll have to add this to the list,” he mutters.

“What list?” You ask as you keep walking.

He explains, “Sans, he has this stupid playlist, and all the songs have “fire” or “burning” or something like that in the title. He puts it on to annoy me, but he hasn’t figured out that I actually like most of the music.” 

You start laughing, because _of course_ Sans would do that. 

“Speaking of Sans,” Grillby says, “He’s going to be ecstatic when he hears about _this_.” For emphasis, he looks over at you and squeezes your hand. “He appointed himself as my wingman back when we first met."

You reply, “Are you kidding me? Kyle’s been trying to get me to make a move too! Did you know he wasn’t even tired when he left the bar tonight? That he just wanted to let us be alone?”

“I could’ve guessed."

“Ugh, how much do you wanna bet they’ve been working together? Fucking conspirators.” 

“I don’t need to bet. I know,” he says. 

The two of you have ended up at the parking lot where Grillby’s motorcycle sits. You didn’t even realize you were unconsciously heading this way, but here you are. It’s the same lot he seems to always park in, the one overlooking the river. You step to the railing and lean over a bit, looking out to see if you can spy any boats. There’s a small barge a little ways down, punctuated with little yellow lights around the hull. You can see another riverboat further out, and if you strain your eyes it looks like one of the recreational ones you can pay a small fortune to go out on for the night. 

You feel Grillby’s warm hand on your back before you see him at your left, looking past you at the boats. “You know, this river is so much prettier than the ones underground. They glowed, but they didn’t really _shine_. They couldn’t without moonlight or sunlight or anything like that beaming down at them.”

“It looks so dirty during the day, though,” you remarks. 

“Maybe, but I don’t really care about flaws. They’re natural things, so why not appreciate them?” He says, and leans in to kiss you again. 

It feels so natural, putting your mouth against fire. The warmth against your lips is coupled with the heat in your chest. You’re happy. You’re dizzy. You’re _together_. 

“Would you like to go home now?” He asks, thumbing back to his motorcycle. “I’d feel better about keeping you up this late if I knew you could at least get a decent rest.” 

“Sure.” 

The leather jacket is stored in his motorcycle compartment, as is his sole helmet. Grillby hands you the dome before slipping his toned, flickering arms through the sleeves of his jacket.

“It looks like I’ll need to get a second helmet,” he tells you, and it’s such a simple phrase, but it just makes you happy to know he’s thinking forward. You put the helmet on as he straddles the cycle, and then scoots up for you to get behind him.

You’re not nearly as embarrassed about holding onto his midsection as you were last time. In fact, you scoot closer until your chest presses against his back. The leather’s warm, the cool material merging with the heat of his body. Some daring part of you lifts the helmet visor enough for you to lean up and kiss the back of the fire elemental’s neck, just above his collar.

He splutters a bit, fire crackling up into the night air, but seems to recover quickly. 

“Are you ready, dear?”

There it is again. _Dear._

You whisper in his ear, “I was _born ready_ ,” just to hear his laughter. 

It’s not a very long drive to get back to your neighborhood. Lights on in your new house let you know that Kyle’s either awake or willing to pay the power bill. _Oh, is he gonna love to hear about your night._ You can already picture the way he’s gonna grin, those eyes sparking with mischief to know his plan _actually fucking worked_.

Grillby pulls into his driveway, turns the engine off, and holds out a flaming hand to help you off. 

“I hope you enjoyed your little break,” you say, hands brushing. “Maybe I’ve convinced you to take a few more in the future.” 

He smirks down at you, and his fingers interlock with yours. “If all my breaks are going to end up like that did, then I’ll never get any work done.” 

You laugh, playfully hitting him on the shoulder before grabbing your purse and slinging it over your shoulder. “Then I guess we’ll just have to spend time outside of your work.”

“I’d hope so.” His eyes look so soft, and his jagged smile is a blurred light in the rest of his flames. “Goodnight, _____.” When he leans down to kiss you, you’re amazed by how gentle and sweet it is. _He_ is. 

“Goodnight.” 

You can’t stop smiling all the way to the door.

You try to be quiet when you walk in, just in case Kyle’s actually asleep. However, when you enter the living room to put your purse on the couch, your attention’s drawn to a high-backed swivel chair in the middle of the room. It was originally in the “office” (aka: the clutter room), but it’s sitting here facing the opposite direction. You’re about to move it when it slowly swivels around, and you realize it’s not empty. 

Kyle’s sitting in the chair, legs crossed, petting a stuffed cat plush that’s sitting in his lap. He’s trying to look serious, but tiny grins and stifled laughter keep escaping him. 

“Well, hello there, _____. What happened to you tonight?”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank you so much for reading this far. I hope to have the next chapter out as soon as I can!!!


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